


so comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings

by youheldyourbreath



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, lots and lots of makeouts, michelle has all kinds of fucked up family, prince peter prefers to pine, the medieval magic arranged marriage au that no one asked for, there are dragons, this is mainly an excuse for me to write spideychelle with magic and makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14584407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youheldyourbreath/pseuds/youheldyourbreath
Summary: Princess Michelle’s land has been invaded. And to save her country she knows what is expected of her, she knows she is set to marry a man she does not know, hardly respects and loathes for forcing her homeland to its knees. Affection cannot grow in the face of war. Not even when the face of that war has the most gorgeous eyes she has ever seen.





	1. em meets parker

Michelle loved the routine of tournaments. She was often kept from the unpleasant matters of fighting and war but the grand tradition of a tourney was considered more of a celebration than a violent affair. And she loved them. They always began with less challenging trials, mostly magic demonstrations—hitting a target with a lightening bolt, coercing animals to jump through hoops, magic battles. Then moved into Michelle’s favorite events of physical competition where speed, strength and wit were all tested.

In the foolish naivety of childhood, Michelle used to imagine herself as one of the epic magic knights from history. She would picture herself sporting the royal standard and fighting with duty and honor in the grand contests. When she turned twelve, the princess’ dreams were dashed. Her father, the King, sweetly kissed her brow and said, “Knighthood is for men, my sweetling. Not women. And especially not princesses.”

And that had been the end of Michelle the Knight.

She was forced into etiquette lessons and taught how to dance and curtsy and giggle thoughtlessly behind her fan. She was fashioned to be a paper doll, something so two-dimensional and flimsy that the wind could have blown her away. But behind her fashioning was the heart of that imaginary Knight. Those dreams had been dashed but sometimes, when she was alone, she picked up those broken pieces of wishing and imagined she was made of iron. Not paper.

When she was sixteen her world was shaken at the foundations when foreign invaders plundered her homeland. Her father fought valiantly. And her father lost.

The King of that foreign land, the Stark Lands, was an inventive madman or so the stories said. Michelle had heard that he pushed the limits of magic with some rudimentary madness called machinery. And his son, the prince, Peter, rode a red and blue dragon into battle with him. They were fierce, they were unstoppable, and they had brought her homeland to its knees.

When her father, the King, returned their court with his tail between his legs, Michelle had known then that the war had been lost. She had read enough history books to know that conquerors did not make slaves of competing monarchs. They killed them.

She sat on a nearby chair as she braced herself for the news.

It was far worse than she could have ever designed. “Married?” she balked.

“Married,” her father nodded, “To the Prince. We will join houses or we will die.”

Her chest rose and fell unevenly, nearly gasping for air, “I can’t.”

The words tasted hollow. She was a princess of a great house. She was always going to be bought and sold like cattle. Alliances were how monarchies survived. And if her house was to survive this invasion, she would need to do her duty.

And so, a tournament would be thrown. She had always liked the routine, the mastery, displayed at such games. This tournament, however, was going to be the fashioning of a new Michelle. She would no longer be a paper doll, or the iron maiden she dreamed once; no, she would be a stolen pride, a prize for a barbarian prince.  

The Starks wanted to celebrate the impending nuptials of their dear prince with all the bells and whistles of a joyful union. It was not to look like what it truly was: the exchanging of goods to maintain the peace between two hostile countries, an arranged marriage.

* * *

 

Michelle woke in the early hours of the tournament and stared at her ceiling in deep thought. If today was going to be the beginning of the end of her life, she wanted to feel the way she had before she was stuffed in a corset and told princesses were not allowed to dream. She turned her head to stare at the flickering candle lighting her bed chamber. The flame danced and burned and billowed. Michelle blew it out.

She went rifling through her drawers and found an old pair of dirty trousers from her horse-riding days. Michelle slipped them on and found they were snug and the ugliest shade of brown. They were incredible. She tugged on a white, linen shirt that often doubled for a nightshirt and stole one of the beated, dusty vests from the stables. She wound her hair up in a knot on the top of her head and a few lose curls tickled her ears.

It was barely dawn when she began to wander aimlessly around the empty tournament. In that pale, morning light, she began to pantomime the tasks, as if she were a great Knight herself. The way she had once recklessly dreamed.

Her magic was unpracticed and unfocused—women were not allowed to use magic outside of cooking and cleaning—when she tossed a flash of green lightening toward one of the targets. It missed the middle by several feet and buried itself in the grass. She cursed unprettily.

“You have to follow through when you throw it.”

Michelle jumped at the offending voice and spun around to face her potential attacker. A few feet away stood a boy, no older than nineteen, dressed in unkept trousers and a well-worn vest. His hair was almost auburn and his smile was unusually kind. She had not spent much time with boys her age outside of dull courtiers in years. Michelle had once been friends with the stable boy, but that friendship had suddenly ended when she was considered a woman. Thirteen had been a rough year all around.

She forced herself to stand tall, “I can handle myself, thank you.”

He smiled sloppily on one end of his mouth, “I’m sure you can. The suggestion still stands, miss.”  

Michelle huffed but curiosity won out, “How would you throw your bolt, Mister-“

“Parker,” he supplied, “You can call me Parker, miss.”

“Well, Mister Parker,” Michelle crossed her arms over her chest, “If you are so clever, give it a go.”

He laughed and took the short walk to her side. Mister Parker squared his hips, lifted his hand and began to conjure a strikingly red bolt in his fist. It crackled wildly in his hand before he exhaled and threw the bolt all in one go. It found the center of the target.

Her mouth opened in surprise and when she turned to look at him he was already watching her. “That was-“ she tried to find the words to describe him.

“-well aimed,” he finished, cheekily.

She rolled her eyes and smiled at his candor, “You are rather forward, Mister Parker. To finish a lady’s sentence.”

“Well,” he smiled that maddeningly bright smile again, “I would never presume to call you a lady, miss.”

In any other place, in any other time, such words would have cost the man his head. But in the safety of the dawn, with no one to hear him being so disrespectful to his princess, Michelle laughed. She laughed because she was free to laugh and because he did not know who she was dressed so plainly. She had anonymity as this messy version of herself.

Her laughter only made him smile wider, “What is your name, miss?”

“Em,” she said. “My name is Em.”

He inclined his head in a show of respect, “Well, Miss Em. Would you like me to show you how to throw your bolt?”

They spent the next hour or so, as the sun began to creep up the sky, working on a few of the magical tasks set for the tournament. Mister Parker was competing. She had gathered that from the moment she watched him throw his first red bolt. But Michelle was too afraid to ask for which side he was competing. He was nice, he was gentlemanly even, and if he was one of the Stark bannerman it would gut her insides.

The castle began to wake and Michelle knew her taste of short-lived freedom was coming to an end. “Mister Parker,” she whispered, as he flitted around the battle ground to show her the best way to aim a flaming arrow through a hoop, “I need to leave.”

His eyes clouded with confusion and he dropped the bow to his side, “Why? The tournament doesn’t start for hours yet.”

“I’m one of the princess’ ladies,” she lied easily. “I will be expected to help her rise and prepare for the day.”

A shadow of some deep thought flickered across his face and it made his joyful features momentarily severe. He took a deep breath and whatever thought ailed him washed away in a wave of good cheer, “She can wait.”

“No,” Michelle said firmly, “She can’t.”

“Miss Em,” Parker licked his lips, “What…what is she like? Your princess?”

Michelle tried not to smile, she bit down the urge to regale this competitor with ludicrous tales of her kindness and beauty and intelligence. It would be so easy to feed the mythos of herself. But she had already lied so much to this gentleman and she wanted to keep a drop of honesty between them, a kernel of genuine respect. She liked this man. He was kind and funny and respectful. He did not try and press his advantage of having a woman in his clutches in the early hours of the morning. He treated her with respect and listened to her stories with eager ears. She liked him a great deal. “She is loyal. Loyal to her people and her kingdom.”

“No,” Parker ran a ragged hand through his messy hair, “But what is she like?” Michelle gawked at him, so he explained, “My prince is going to wed her. I would like to know who would one day be my Queen.”

Michelle tried not to let her heart fall at the knowledge that this boy was the enemy. He had been so kind and giving and genuine the entire morning. It should not matter to her that he was a bannerman for the Stark Lands. It should not. But it did. She knew that he could see the apprehension now whirling in her eyes. He hastened to comfort her, “I know you think my people are foreign aggressors. I know you think that we are evil. And I know you hate us for invading. But we are not an evil people. We are usually peace but-“ He trailed off.

Michelle pressed, “But-?”

He shook his head, “I should not be discussing such unpleasant things with such a lovely lady.”

Michelle sucked in a breath, “And you were doing so well.”

Parker raised an eyebrow, “Meaning what?”

“I am more than a lovely lady, sir.”

“Of course-“

“And,” she said loud enough to silence him, her commanding tone acting as the briefest flicker of her royal lineage, “to diminish my worth to something as trivial as lovely is beneath me.”

His eyes heated and she felt her stomach lurch in an almost pleasant manner, “I was not diminishing you. I think you are smart and capable but you are also lovely. Does it repulse you so to hear it?”

“Yes,” she spat. 

“Then,” he sighed, “We are at an impasse. Give my regards to your lady.”

There was a part of her that wanted to chase down the bannerman as he began to exit the field but her eyes were now blinded by morning light. If her real ladies had not already gone to collect her from bed, they would do so soon and she needed to be back in the safety of the castle before anyone learned she had left. She turned back to the castle and, then, recklessly ran after the bannerman. “Mister Parker,” she called.

He stopped and turned around to watch her as she ran toward him. She ripped the tie that was holding her hair securely on the top of her head down. It was a silk, blue ribbon. Michelle pressed the fabric into his hand. He stared at her, his mouth agape, and she whispered, “A token. May it keep you safe in today’s contest.”

Parker’s mouth twisted upward and he bowed his head to kiss her hand, “It would be my honor.”

When they parted, Michelle ran to the castle. She entered through the back of the kitchen and bounded up the stairs to her chambers. Her ladies were all waiting anxiously in her room when she arrived. She stared at a sea of watery eyes and lied, “I was out for a walk. I could not sleep.”

* * *

 

The tournament field was sticky and hot from the summer sun. Michelle wanted to tear the black veil off of her face to gulp in fresh air but her lady’s maid clutched her free hand in a silent plea to keep her clothing unruffled. The princess rolled her eyes under the safety of the veil.

When the young competitors began to flood the field, as the tournament began, Michelle kept her eyes pealed for Mister Parker. It was hard to tell any of the gentleman apart dressed head-to-toe in their armor.

But then, she spotted her ribbon tied to the breastplate of one of the Knights. Michelle leaned over to her lady’s maid and whispered, “Who is that man? The one with the ribbon?”

The lady’s eyes flitted across the field looking for the offending gentleman. Michelle clutched the fabric of her dress in her hands. She began to imagine a horrible reality where Mister Parker was one of her future husband’s guards and she would be forced to be near him but eternally apart for the rest of her days. And then, she imagined a worse reality where Mister Parker was some lowly Lord from a far-away house and she would never see him again. He would go back to the country to man his estate and pick a simple wife and laugh at her jokes the way he had done to her that morning.

Her lady’s eyes found Mister Parker.

“That, your highness,” her lady whispered, “is your betrothed.”

The world went woozy and Michelle heard the cries of concern before she collapsed unconscious from shock. 


	2. the black veil

Peter impatiently endured the endless ceremony of fastening on his tournament armor. The entire process was a torturous affair and Peter suffered as pounds of useless armor was shackled on his person. His formal armor was unbearably hot and limited his range of motion immensely. It was not the armor he wore on the battlefield. In battle, he sported a magic-enforced breastplate made with recycled dragon scales taken from his own goch, his red-winged beast.

Peter tried not to shutter as he heard the first rumblings of the crowd beginning to arrive just outside his tent. There was a terrified part of him that wanted to tear open the silk curtains and shout for them all to go home, there would be no tournament and no wedding, but he did not move. His royal conscious and armor prevented him.

“Ned,” Peter addressed his squire who was on the ground locking in his leg guards, “not so tigtht.”

His squire clammored to his feet and briefly inclined his head in the hurried mockery of a bow, “A thousand apologies, m’lord. I mean, your highness.”

Peter sighed, “Ned–.”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Ned apologized. “It’s a lot to get used to, what you being prince now and all.”

Peter ignored the sting he felt at Ned’s words and flexed his hands to test the movement in his gloves. They would be competent enough to accomplish the silly magical games of the morning but he was growing concerned about the afternoon physical tests. How was to be expected to swordfight in such constricting attire? It was insanity. He squeezed his fist as if to mimmick holding his sword, “I’m still me. I’m still Peter.”

Ned crossed to the velvet drapped table where Peter’s stuffy, princely helmet was seated, “In some ways, yes, but you’re not exactly the dragon rider I knew either, are you?”

His squire handed him the palatial helmet and Peter ran his gloved fingers across the insignia weilded into the side. It was the symbol of his royal house. Beneath the crest some artist had painted his HRH address. No one would mistake him for anything other than the prince. “I didn’t lie to you,” Peter said glumly, “if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

Ned shook his head, “No. But you didn’t tell me the truth either.”

“I never mentioned I was the prince, Ned, because you would have treated me differently. When I was Parker you were different. We were different.” Everything was different when he was Parker. And, truthfully, Peter much preferred being Parker to being the prince.

It was as Parker that he became friends with Ned and trained to ride his beloved goch. It was as Parker that he made friendships on the mountain top where all dragon riders trained and lived, where he was one of the soldiers in the fleet, the same as every man and woman and child that called themselves rider. It was as Parker he met Em that morning and laughed with her.

Parker had anonymity. Peter was friendless and royal and alone.

He continued to trace the patters on his helmet, “I met a girl.”

Ned’s eyes lit up and for the briefest of moments Peter could imagine that they were the same two boys that were training with the dragon fleet as lowly stable boys on that mountain top. The moment was over as soon as Ned said, “But, wait, you’re engaged.”

Peter secured his sword to his side, “I know that. I still met a girl.”

His squire huffed and leaned down to check that his prince’s sword was in fact properly secured. Peter was known for purposefully keeping his armor loose. He liked to rip pieces of armor off of himself when he competed so that he could fight less burdened. Ned tightened his sword holster knowingly, “Your father would be displeased.”

“I know my duty,” Peter pointed out. Ned turned his head away in shame. Peter sucked in a trying breath. He was not going to foresake his duty all because he had met some girl. No matter how beautiful she had been. And she had been beautiful. And smart. And funny. Peter softened and clasped a hand on Ned’s shoulder, “Forgive me. I know you mean well.”

“Your highness.” Peter flinched at Ned’s adress, so he ammended, “Peter, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but Princess Michelle is regarded for her beauty. I’m certain you will forget the girl. In time.”

Peter did not share Ned’s conviction. In fact, he sorely doubted he would forget her. Peter had known very few joys in his honor bound life. As a royal prince, the heir to the throne, he had been groomed in the image of his kingdom. His entire life had been crafted to serve the crown.

When he was a boy he was given every opportunity for greatness. He had been taught several languages, schooled in the art of magic and even taught the noble art of combat, but there had been no room for companionship. His father kept other children away from him in an effort to keep him focused.

Only when he turned fifteen was he sent to study on the mountain with the other magic users in his land, four whole years later than most dragon riders. And it was on that mountain top where he made his first friends. It was there he was given a taste of freedom and had the stirrings of a life outside of the crown.

He still had that feeling every time he rode his dragon. And he had felt the burning embers of it again that morning when he had met Em. In another life, he was a dragon rider from a foreign land and he had the freedom to court a lady’s maid.

Peter closed his eyes and took in a shutteringly deep breath. He found his center and wiped away his foolish dreams and opened his eyes. He yanked his helmet down over his head and exited the royal tent. He reminded himself that his future wife was somewhere out in the crowd and he had a duty to her and to his kingdom today. With that in mind, he joined the other competetors on the field for the grand processional.

Before he stepped into the line, he touched the blue ribbon he had tied to the hilt of his sword as a keepsake. It was surprsingly precious to him. He hastily ripped it off of the hilt of his sword and tied it to his breastplate where it would be seen for what it was—a token.

He knew he was being reckless and that his father would be furious that he had dared to wear another woman’s token in the face of his new fiancee, but he did not care. He would claw at freedom for another day more.

When the processional began Peter began to desperately search the crowd for Em. He knew that she could not be wearing the same dirtied trousers and flimsy top from that morning, but there was a tiny part of him that hoped he found her dressed that way. She had reminded him of the dragon riders on the mountain. All of the women who rode dragons wore trousers. There was no room for dresses on the back of a dragon. Perhaps that was why he had liked her so much. She reminded him of home.

Peter only hesitated in his search for his lady’s maid when he first beheld his intended for the first time. She was in a black veil, sitting primly like she was in mourning. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at such an outlandish statement. He did not want to marry her either but to go as far as to insinuate that the union between their two lands was likened to a funeral was proposterous. Peter’s insides flooded with red anger and he had to force himself to look away from her before he did something stupid.

Besides, she could have her veil if he could have his token from his mysterious, trouser-wearing maiden.

Then, there was a shout. The shout rippled throughout the crowd into a mighty roar. Peter turned to the sound of the offending shouts and saw the moment the princess collapsed into the sea of her ladies.

He looked for Em amongst them and was crushed that he could not spot her.

Peter felt someone press into his side and when he turned it was Ned. His squire tried to speak over the shouts of a crowd concerned for their princess. “She is your bethrothed,” Ned reminded him. “This is your engagement tournament. Go to her.”

Peter cursed and ripped off of his helmet. He had been so captivated by the search for Em that he had momentarily foresaken his duties. He dropped the heavy metal helmet into the sand and pushed himself over to the risers where a flurry of people had formed around their dear Princess Michelle.

Peter catipulted himself over the bar separating the competetors from the public and pushed his way through the bodies. “Out of my way. Let me through.”

When he reached the ladies that were all fanning and weeping over their lady, he gently guided one away so that he could sit beside he betrothed. The damn veil was still covering her face and he had to kill the growing anger at her effective symbol. “Her corset,” he heard himself say, “is it too tight?”

Her ladies all blubbered hysterics about how she was so beautiful and serine and how worried they were. Peter took a deep breath and tried to find that well of silence he slipped into during battle, when the only sounds that he wanted to hear was the wipping of the air around his ears and the steady flapping of his dragon’s wings. He hastily unfastened the blue, silk ribbons of her dress and, then, was left to stare dry mouthed at her corset. He knew when they were married the sight of her corset would be commonplace to him, but now, in front of a crowd of onlookers, it felt indecent. Even if he was trying to help her breathe.

He dragged his knife out of a concealed sheath at his thigh and tore open the front of her corset.

It worked instantly. She gasped for breath. The pair nearly crashed their foreheads together when she sat up suddenly, but Peter had the good sense to dodge away from her moments before they collided.

Her ladies swarmed around her and wrapped her soundly in a silk stole to maintain some level of decency. She faced him cloaked in her veil and it was only then that he tried to squint to see her eyes but she quickly turned away from him, stealing the vision of her face. “My lady,” he said between the flutter of worried voices, “are you alright?”

She nodded.

He worked his jaw and clung to his patience. He even attempted to make a joke to lighten the discomfort, “This is not how I would have planned our first official meeting.”

She snorted but still did not speak.

“Would you not speak with me?” he gawked at her vieled face.

“No,” she roughed out. And his the back of his spine tingled.

He knew that voice. He had heard it only hours before.

Peter did not wait to ask for permission, he threw all of his lessons of courtly politeness away, and reached for her veil. The people around him gasped at his gall. He had already ripped her dress and corset open, but that could be forgiven as an act of bravery. She had been helpless and unconscious and struggling for breath, then.

Now, he had no excuse for touching her without her express consent. A veil on a lady was a precious thing.

The lace of the black veil was thick. He could barely see through it, even in the blinding summer sun. Peter brushed it back off of her face–a strange funhouse version of their would-be wedding ceremony—and stared.

**“Em.”**   


	3. scolded children

Like a pair of scolded children, Peter and Michelle stood sheepishly outside of the large, brass double doors. They were still dressed in all of their finery from the botched engagement tournament. Michelle’s dress and corset were still jadedly torn open from Peter’s uneven knife and her stole was the only thing that shielded her modesty from the elements. She did not ask to change, she was too terrified to even speak. So, the two heirs waited anxiously for the set of rival kings, their fathers, to invite them into the throne-room.

Peter shattered the heavy, burdened silence between them, “A lady’s maid?” The accusation was clear in his tone but Michelle did not rise to his bait. Instead, she tightened to stole wrapped around her shoulders. Peter did not stand idely as he waited for her to speak. He began to unfasten his armor and let the metal clang to the ground loudly. He briefly paused to untie the blue, silk ribbon she had given him that morning from his breastplate. He tucked it safely in his pocket, which was a maddingly curious gesture to Michelle.

They caught eyes for a moment. It was long enough for something significant to pass between them. Michelle turned her head away, “Yes, a lady’s maid, Mister Parker.”

Peter did not respond for some time as he divested himself of the rest of his armor. When it was awkwardly piled near the door and he was left only in his leathers he spoke, again, “That was my name on the mountain.”

The princess whirled on him in surprise. Michelle had grown up with stories about the dragon riders on the mountain. She knew that all children from the Stark Lands that showed an affinity for magic were sent from their homes at eleven and brought to the mountain on high, The Tower. It was at on the mountain every girl and boy, all equal, were taught to harnese their magic and picked their dragons, their gochs, from the herd.

When she had imagined herself as that warrior maiden in her whimsical childhood sometimes she envisioned herself as a dragon rider. The stories said that all children that were brought to the mountain were allowed to pick a new name. The name they choose would be their marchogwr, their dragon name.

If she had been allowed to train on the mountain she would have called herself Mary Jane.

But Michelle was not a dragon rider. She was an unimportant, voiceless princess forced to wait in humilation in her tattered clothing in front of a betrothed she had not chosen and barely kew. Mary Jane never would have waited impishly in silence while a council of men decided her fate. She would have torn down the tapestries, boarded her magificient beast and flown far, far away from her dreary castle. Those were Michelle’s secret wishings.

“Parker,” she said and tried to ignore how false the name now felt in her mouth. “Why Parker?”

He turned to look at her and the light caught his nearly auburn hair. She murdered the impulse to reach out and touch his curls. They had turned wild under the hot restrictions of his battle helmet. His voice broke her from her trance, “I had a tudor as a child. His name was Ben Parker. He came down with sweating sickness when I was twelve and died.”

Peter blinked twice and turned away from her to hide the creeping blush that was traveling up his neck. Now that all of his armor was gone Michelle had the room to really admire his form the way she had that morning. His neck was the least attractive thing about him and still awakened some secret need in her. She had a wild urge to run her lips along the column of his blushing neck.

Michelle cleared her throat and tugged the stole even tighter around her person. Peter chanced a glance at her, “I don’t know why I told you that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she met his eyes, “You lied to me.”

He narrowed his eyes, “Pardon me, your highness, but you lied to me as well. Or have you forgotten.”

“I was a woman alone with a man I did not know. A man I did not trust.” His eyes flashed with hurt. It made her falter, if only for a moment, before she pressed on, “You cannot expect me to have told you the truth.”

The prince worked his jaw like he was trying to get some offending article out of his teeth. No, he was counting. He was a curious fellow and an even more curious prince. He spoke so evenly she knew he was barely contaiing whatever words he actually wanted to say to her, “Pardon me, your highness. I misunderstood our entire meeting.”

“Misunderstood what?” she said, lifting her chin in a mockery of confidence.

“I had thought there was some genuine connection between us. Forgive me.” Whatever the princess had expected him to say it had not been those words. Her lips parted in the smallest gasp of surprise. Her thoughts whirled around her head untrollably. Every time she tried to grasp onto one singular thought to inspect it and pick it apart, it slipped away and another more confusing one took its place.

She took a step toward him for reasons beyond her and nearly spoke when the double doors flew open and the two matched kings stood in front of one throne. Prince Peter straightened his back and took a step backward as a sign of respect that he would allow her to entire the room first. She was a lady, after all. In fact, she was meant to be his lady one day.

Her feet felt like lead but she forced herself to walk. Her father watched her severely and Peter’s father, the King of the Stark Lands, looked almost bored. She felt a flood of that familiar anger against her foreign aggressors. They had invaded her land and threatened her kingdom and their King had the gall to look bored, as if this meeting was an inconvenience to him.

Michelle’s eyes narrowed but she curtsied. She felt Peter take a deep bow beside her. They were together in this, at least.

“Father,” Peter tried.

“You will speak,” King Anthony growled out, “when spoken to, boy.”

Michelle could see him out of the corner of her eye buckle under the weight of his father’s words. He looked no older than a boy, then. The stirrings flared again.

“And you,” Michelle’s own father said, addressing her, “what do you have to say?”

She clutched to fabric of her stole and allowed herself to be as self-assured and wondurous as the Mary Jane of her dreams. She was a dragon rider starng down the face of her enemies. Men, all, were her enemies today. “I have done nothing wrong. I fainted from the sun. My betrothed was very gallant and helped save my life, would you not agree, father?”

Her father’s jaw ticked, “I wou-“

“And,” she cut him off, “I believe such a heroic act is a wonderful beginning to what will, no doubt, be a very fruitful union.”

She felt Peter snap his head toward her. She was defending him. It had not been a conscious choice on her end but she did not want to be looked down on by the men here as a foolish girl that had ruined the tournament with her hysterics. She had turned her failings into a roarous success. Michelle almost dared any of the men present to argue with her. She knew they would not.

King Anthony snapped at his son, “And you? What do you have to say for yourself? This is a lovely, regal lady. And you dishonored her with that token.”

Her eyes went to the blue scrap of ribbon that was hanging out from his pocket. She had not realized what this meeting was truly about. They had been angry with Michelle for causing a scene at the tournament, but Peter had recklessly sported his favor for another lady in her presence and to their entire kingdom. It had been seen and judged as a dishonorable act of war.

Peter flinched, “Father-“

“It is mine,” Michelle interrupted him. If the room had been surprised by her before, they were all openly gawking at her now. She could feel the intense heat of Peter’s eyes on her, waiting to see what she would do now. Only moments before she had told him that their meeting that morning had been fake, that their had been no connection between them. And yet, she was jumping into battle for him in front of their fathers, in front of two kings.

Her father whispered her name in shock. She quickly tried to wind a fanciful lie to protect both her virtue and Peter’s dignity. “I did not meet him before today, my King, I promise. My virtue and his honor are both still in tact. I had one of my lady’s maids bring the ribbon to one of his bannermen this morning to deliver it to their master. If it was to be our engagement tourney, I wanted him to have something from me. It was a foolish girl’s wish. And I’m sorry.”

Her father turned to Peter who was standing shell-shocked beside her, “Is this true?”

Peter dumbly nodded, “Yes, sir.” He hesitated before adding roughly, “A lady’s maid and bannerman did meet this morning.” His eyes slid over to Michelle when he said that and she had to look away. Whatever magic had fired between them that morning could now only be a memory. No matter what was expected of them, what their duties would be, she could not forget that he had brought war to her homeland. And so, it could only be war between them.

She would not crumble beneath the soft eyes of a foreign prince.


	4. pebbles at the window

Three days passed before Peter saw Michelle again. 

After their audience with their fathers, she had been shepherded away by her ladies’ maids and locked up behind doors he was not permitted to step beyond. Not seeing her drove him mad. He looked for her in every change of the morning light, every delicate whisper between his bannermen, around every damned corner. When he would catch the echo of a light foot on the stair, he bound up them in the hopes that it was her, only to be sorely disappointed every time. 

Being in the same castle as her yet being maddeningly out of reach was beginning to take its tole on the young prince. He had never imagined to find joy in his arranged marriage. When he had been told he was going to be married off to the princess of his kingdom’s gravest enemy, Peter had sworn and cursed at his father and decreed he would never marry her. 

And then, he had met Em on the tourney grounds the morning of their engagement tournament. When she had given him her blue ribbon, he had paid for the token with his heart. He did not know her well enough to love her, perhaps, but when he gazed at her that day he knew that he would one day love her. The princess shined of endless possibility. She cracked open his bones and flooded his system with something  _significant_. Michelle’s mere presence made him stand taller and prouder and, for the flicker of a heartbeat, he had finally seen himself as a ruler his country would be proud to call King. With one smile, she had constricted his poor, hopeless part and burned her initials on his very being.

His squire, Ned, sat opposite of him at their small, wooden table in his quarters as the two man tried to drink the other under the table. “What I don’t understand,” Ned poured their goblets to the brim, “is why you can’t just go and speak with her. She’s your future queen.”

Peter pressed his forehead against the cool rim of his goblet and groaned. He felt the wine slosh against his forehead. “She has to ask to see me. If I ask, it’ll be seen as too forward. Court etiquette.” When he lifted his head, Ned snorted at the rim of wine imprinted on his lord’s head. With a scowl, Peter wiped away the red stain of wine with the back of his hand, “Oh, shut up.” 

“I’m sorry, your highness,” Ned beamed, although the smile was warmed with the treacherous glow of alcohol, “I’ve never seen you deep in your cups before.” The squire sloshed some wine on the table and added, “Over a girl.” 

The prince swallowed two large gulps of wine, “She is the future queen. Not some girl.” 

“You like her,” Ned sang in an unfamiliar, loopy tune. “You like her a lot.” 

Peter shakily reached for the pitcher of wine to refill their ever-dwindling cups. It took him three imbalanced attempts to manage to pour the wine into the glass instead of on the table. Peter chortled, “I want to take her flying. I think she’d look so fierce on a goch.” Ned laughed harder and Peter’s lips turned downward. He was riddled with the sudden onslaught of troubling thoughts. His frown deepened with each unhappy, drunken theory, “She doesn’t like me. She won’t even grant me an audience to see her and we are to be married in two days.” 

If the two men had not been drunk, Peter reflected later, the next impulsive suggestion never would have grown from the seed of a bad idea to a full-blown disaster. 

“Go to her,” Ned threw his arms up in the air. 

Peter sputtered behind his glass, “What?” 

“No,” Ned nodded, “You have to go to her. Take your goch and fly to her window and sweep the lady off of her feet. Steal her away.” 

The prince stood wobbly on his buckling knees. “Ned,” he said with a serious severity that only a drunk man could muster, “You’re a genius!” 

With a snort, Ned fell out of his chair.

* * *

 

When Peter had called for his goch, an intricate serious of whistles, his blue-bellied and red-winged beast flapped to the ground. He extended his hand and she nuzzled her snout into his waiting hand. “Hello, darling,” Peter whispered. His dragon clicked a happy noise in hello and he smiled. “Shall we fly, then?” 

He boarded his goch when she lowered her spiked wing for him to climb like a ramp. The prince scratched the soft patch of skin at the top of her head once he was settled on her broad back. It was a universal code from dragon to dragon rider to fly and, with that, she flapped her wings and the pair of them took off to the sky. 

The wind whipped at his drunken face and slowly began to sober him. He had not considered how difficult it would be to locate the princess’ window when he had plotted sweeping her off of her feet with his squire, but now that he was flying through the air, Peter was suddenly faced with the hundreds of windows lit around the castle. Any of them could have been hers. 

That was when he remembered the blue ribbon, her token, that he had worn as a bracelet since the day they had met. Peter eagerly ripped it off of his wrist and offered it to his dragon to smell in a last ditch attempt to track down his princess. It took a bit of maneuvering on the goch’s part to twist her large head enough to get a whiff of the silk, but then she breathed deep and swooped low. 

Peter whooped and cheered until his goch stalled to a halt outside of a lit window. He cheerfully scratched her scales and climbed down her back so his face was level with Michelle’s window. The prince knocked on her window. 

He was met with silence. 

So, he knocked again. 

The prince heard the clatter of someone tripping beyond the shutters and he bit back his smile. When the window flew open he readied his heart for the sight of her, his beautiful Michelle, but was met instead by a face he did not recognize. 

The ladies screamed. Peter screamed louder. 

If he had not been drunk he would not have staggered back off of his dragon’s back and fallen, but he had been drunk and, so, he fell. As he fell faster and faster, Peter offhandedly thought  _how cruel the world fate was that he was going to die before he got to marry the woman of his dreams_. 

His dragon snatched him in her open claws before moments before he hit the ground. And Peter let out a shaky, relieved laugh. Relieved, he scratched the scales on her talons. “Good girl.” 

The dragon huffed out an gloomy click. She threw him up in the air and then swooped under his body so he landed  _hard_  on her back. He felt the wind get knocked out of his body and he rolled over on his stomach and groaned, “I’m sorry, okay? No need to toss me around.” He felt her growl radiate from her scales. 

However, his goch flew him back up to the window where a flurry of ladies maids were all looking out the window to the fallen prince below. When he reached the window, again, he noticed Michelle was standing behind all of her maids with her fist in her mouth, like she had bitten back a sob. 

When they connected eyes, he felt his entire world right itself. Looking at her, my god, it was like looking into the face of salvation. This was what it was supposed to feel like. This indescribably rightness. 

And then, his princess’ eyes narrowed, “You complete and utter MORON, you royal idiot!” 

The ladies all gasped at their princess’ candor and Peter grinned so broadly he felt as if his face would split into two glowing pieces, “I had to get your attention somehow.” His dragon growled, again, a clear warning that she did not approve of her master’s version of getting his betrothed’s attention. Peter scratched her head to soothe her. 

Then, he offered his hand to the girl practically leaning out of her window now to get a better look at his goch. He could see the wonder and awe lighting up her features as she shoved her maids away to inspect his creature. Her land did not have such beasts. They had eradicated the dragons ages ago and forced most magic, beyond the most rudimentary and mundane sort, out of their kingdom. 

His goch was like the eighth wonder of the world to her people. 

And he wanted to take her flying.  

“This was not the way to get my attention,” she said, but her voice did not hold any former ire. She was too entranced by his dragon. He saw the world of possibility dancing behind her irises. 

So, Peter offered again, “Are you coming or not?” 

She gnawed on her lip. Peter’s heart dropped. 

And then, she smiled and took his hand. 


	5. every minute of every day

When Michelle had imagined herself on the back of a dragon, she had envisioned herself armed to the teeth in dashing, shining armor with a sword in her hand. The reality of her riding second fiddle to a foreign prince she was being forced to marry clothed only in her dressing gown was far less exciting. Yet, Peter was much warmer than the steel of her imaginary armor might have been and on a cold night holding onto the detestable prince was an effective shield against the elements.

She pressed her frosty nose against the back of his shirt and shivered. He turned his head over his shoulder and tried to catch her eye, “Are you alright?”

Michelle huffed out an icy breath, “Cold.”

“Ah,” Peter hummed. “Yes. It can be a little cold the first couple of times. Don’t worry,” he beamed, “You’ll get used to it.”

The princess faltered at his words. The prince was a dizzying man. All of her life she had been brushed aside and left to twiddle her thumbs in great halls in glorious dresses without any notion of when she would ever be allowed to spring for her freedom. And now, here, he was offering it to her freely. In the form of a dragon. She did not dare let herself hope that maybe, just maybe, marriage would offer her something other than duty. If they could not have genuine affection, or even love, she would settle for dragon riding. “You’ll let me fly her again?” Michelle loathed how wondrous her voice sounded.

Peter laughed into the night air. The laugh could have echoed into eternity or been eaten up by the sky and Michelle would never have known the difference. All she could hear was the pounding of the wind in her ears and the thudding of her heart in her chest. Flying made her feel limitless. Anything and everything could happen up above the clouds. She could be someone new. Even a version of the warrior Mary Jane she had dreamed of as a girl.

“What’s mine is yours, princess,” Peter called out. His goch made a less confident clicking noise. She did not seem to like the notion of being ridden by more than one rider. Peter rubbed a curiously soft patch of scales on the back of her neck which went a long in appeasing the beast. “That’s what the marriage contract says at least,” he grinned.

The princess pursed her lips in irritation, but it did not quite reach her eyes. She was too overwhelmed by the magic of the moment. When he had arrived at her window, and unceremoniously fallen off of his dragon, she had never thought she would be here now, flying among the stars. But when he had looked up at her from underneath her window with his crooked, sloppy smile and offered him her hand with the slightest endearing trepidation, she knew she could not say no. He had a way about him, a charm. She had fallen prey to it when she met him as Parker and it was present again that night.

Michelle let her head drop back and the wind tossed her hair around carelessly. She slowly started to unwind her arms from Peter’s back and she felt him tense. “What are you doing?”

She let her arms open and spread to invite the sky into her arms. The princess felt the wind kiss her fingertips, “Breathing.”

* * *

 

When they landed by a lake after nearly an hour of flying, Michelle watched in awe as his dragon unfurled her wings and contorted her body to let the pair of them climb off of her back with ease. Peter climbed down first and then offered her his hand to assist her. She was so giddy, so alive, that she did not think to sneer or avoid his generosity. Michelle willingly took his hand and when their fingertips touched she felt a magical spark catch between them.

That feeling grounded her still flying heart. She drew her hand away and struggled to climb down without his assistance. Michelle grumbled, “Don’t use magic on me, my lord. That spark was unkind.”

He looked as if he had been hit over the head with a heavy stone, “I didn’t.”

Those words settled between them and Michelle had to remind herself to breathe. He was the enemy. He had invaded her homeland and was holding her people hostage with this marriage. She was a spoil of war and he was not a suitor, he was a conqueror.

Michelle remembered to sneer, then.

She looked away when his face fell from the severity of her disdain. The princess did not have sympathy for people that sought to keep her captive. No matter how charming or handsome they were.

As if she sensed her master’s distress, the dragon showed her fearsome hackles and growled at Michelle. Michelle had forgotten, if only for a moment, that the beautiful, gorgeous creature she had been riding was a terrifying beast. Her heart dropped in her shoes and she stumbled back, away from the goch that took two warning steps toward her.

Peter stepped between his dragon and his future bride. His eyes were liquid iron. He raised his hand to stop his goch in her pursuit. The prince bared his own teeth, a clear display of dominance between dragon and rider, “Karen, down.” The blue-bellied dragon flapped her blood red wings and raised herself on her hind legs. Peter ground his teeth together and snapped his fingers twice.

There was a brief stand off between two forces of nature. And then, the dragon collapsed on the ground and offered her master her belly. He rolled his eyes affectionately and crossed to his goch to rub her belly. “Be nice,” he whispered softly enough that she had to strain to hear him. “You’re not doing me any favors acting like that.”

Michelle took a tentative step toward them both.

Peter turned to look at her and gave her a shaky smile as he continued to rub his dragon’s scaly belly. “She’s harmless,” he tried to reassure her, “But she can be very grumpy.” The dragon clicked in half-hearted displeasure. “Oh, please, you know you can.” She pressed her snout against his hand, knocking it off of her belly, as if to give her master the cold shoulder. Peter smiled.

She gawked at the scene, “She nearly ate me.”

“Please,” Peter snorted, “That is outrageous. Karen would never.”

The goch’s large, opal eyes met Michelle’s and the princess was suddenly not sure if she believed him. There was fire and fury behind the animal’s eyes and something more primal— a need to protect her master.

Peter outstretched his hand to her. It was a clear offer and, although she was terrified, she took his hand. If he seemed surprised that she conceded to his wish, it did not color his features. He guided her hand to the belly of his dragon and rested her hand on a large, blue scale. Michelle could feel the steady rise and fall of the goch’s breath.

She smiled, “Karen?”

Peter’s head snapped to her in surprise, “What?”

“Karen,” she repeated, “You said her name was Karen.”

“Oh,” the tips of his ears glowed red in the moonlight, “Well, I had been calling her dragon lady for the first few months we rode together. And when she chose me, I knew I had to give her a name. Karen was the first one that came to mind.”

Michelle could not help it. She laughed. She laughed harder than she had ever laughed in her life. It was a desperately ragged sound, as if she had not laughed in a long, long time and, she supposed, that might have been true.

Peter looked momentarily distressed and, then, he began to smile. It ate his entire face in such a stupid but wonderful way. He was so handsome. This whole arrangement would have been much easier to rage against if he had been ugly. He was more than handsome, he was kind. She was not sure how she knew that about him, maybe because it radiated through every single one of his actions and permeated all of his words, but she knew.

Kindness and savagery should not have been allowed to go hand-in-hand.

He covered her hand that was still resting on his dragon’s stomach with his own, “My god, you’re beautiful.”

Michelle stared at him. She could scarcely do anything else. He was so effective at catching her off guard. He had done it several times in the short few days that had known each other. She wondered if he would spend the rest of their lives catching her off guard. A secret, traitorous part of her hoped that he did.

When she found the words to speak all she managed say was, “Please, stop.”

“Why?” he pressed. Their fingers on the dragon cautiously tangled. It felt like they were crossing a line. Michelle could hear the warning bells of danger blaring in her ears. He was danger. But a louder sound muddled the warnings. It was the uneven beating of her rapid heart.

“I think,” Peter continued, worried and gobsmacked by her very presence, “You are the most singular, most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. And I swear to you, I will try to earn the honor bestowed upon me.”

“What honor?” Michelle whispered. He was leaning in closer and closer to her. In the glow of the night, the faint silver shine, she could see that he had a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. His time in the skies must have exposed him to the sun. It suited the boyish nature of his features.

He reached his free hand to brush a curl off of her shoulder. The dressing gown she was wearing did very little for her modesty and was so flimsy, so ridiculously ill-suited to the night that she could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric. It was such an intense, consuming moment that she half-expected to wake up tomorrow and see an imprint of his hand on her skin.

Peter trailed his hand down her arm, transfixed, “You, Em. You.”

His words doused cold water over the moment. She drew her hand out from underneath his and took a step back. His eyes were clouded with something dangerous and feral, like a part of him wanted to eat her alive. And she loathed the fact that there was more than a part of her that wanted to let him.

He was the enemy. She kept forgetting. She kept finding herself tripping headfirst into these personal, magical moments. “This is not a marriage of passion. This is a contract. Nothing more.”

Peter took a step toward her, crowding her space and making her dizzy with the mere scent of him. “Why not?” he demanded, “Why can’t it be?”

She raised her hands to shove them against his chest but they collided much softer than she had wanted. They barely pushed him at all. Instead, they curled into the fabric of his night shirt and she relished the feeling of his chest under her hands. He was solid and his eyes were filled with so much longing she felt the earth beneath her feet might not have been steady. “You invaded my home. I am a war bride.”

He shook his head, “No. My god, Michelle, there is so much you don’t understand.” Peter lifted his hands to hold her hands on her chest. She did not fight him. She was too close and too confused to move. The princess was trapped in her prince’s gravitational pull. “Your father, _Thanos_ , he has done terrible things.”

“As if King Anthony is a saint.”

“My father is hard. The law is hard. And I will be a kinder King than he is, but…he is not amoral. Thanos. Thanos would see the world burn.”

Michelle tried to pull her hands away but he held her fast. She snarled at him, “That is my father.”

“I do not tell you this to hurt you. I tell you this because-“ He choked on his next words. Whatever he meant to say, he thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut.

Michelle gently prodded, “You tell me this because…?”

“Because I would have you know the truth.” It sounded like a lie. She knew it was a lie. Neither of them pushed for his original intention. Michelle knew she was not ready for it.

The hands that held hers lifted her knuckles up to his lips and he brushed a singular kiss against them. It stole her breath.

And their eyes caught.

“Michelle,” Peter whispered, “I want to see you. I want you to stop hiding from me in the castle. I want to take meals with you and learn your favorite color. I want to write you poetry that you will no doubt hate. I want to kiss you. Every minute. Of every day.” Michelle gnawed nervously on her lip. “But most of all, I want you to stop hating me for the invasion. I want you to open to the truth about your father. And I want to be your friend.”

She released her lip from between her teeth, “You can’t kiss me every minute of every day.” He looked pained. “But you can kiss me now.”


	6. not king yet

Peter could feel his body rebelling against him with each inch Michelle creeped closer to him. His chest shook dangerously, his head pounded violently and viciously, and, in spite of all of that, he beamed. His hand instinctually cupped her face with a swipe of his thumb across her cheek. She shuttered. And he kissed her.

It was the first kiss of his life that resembled anything close to what the romantic tales of old paralleled. It was a shoot-out-the-heavens kind of kiss. If people were made of broken starlight, he and Michelle were made of the same star. He had felt it, sensed it, the morning they met at the tournament but now he had the infallible truth of touch. His body was always meant to lean into hers, fit hers. She waged a war on his senses and it was the first battle of his life he was willing to lose.

They breathed apart.

Michelle trembled under his hand and he dropped easy, lazy kisses to her nose and cheeks and the small patch of skin between her eyes. Her eyes fluttered shut, “What are you doing?”

“Kissing my wife,” Peter said, slanting his mouth over hers once more. Whatever excuses she was conjuring in her head to stop this momentum of the sanctity of the night died in his lips. He wanted her. As a prince there had been so little he had been denied in his long life except something like her. He had to share every single part of his being with his country, but Michelle, at least parts of her, he hoped, would be only his. His people could claim her as their Queen but he wanted her as his wife.

She fisted her hands in the leathers of his vest. Between kisses, she managed to primly retort, “I’m not your wife, my lord.”

“You will be,” he brushed his nose against hers.

And, suddenly, she was gone from the ring of his arms. He was left in the cold without her touch. There was still no trust between them. Kisses were one thing, but trust had to be earned and she did not extend that courtesy to him. She looked at him a few feet away with such profound alarm that he had to dampen down the cracks scratching across his fragile heart.

He sucked in a deep breath and turned his eyes to the ground. He heard the familiar click of his goch lifting her wings in his defense. The bond between dragon and rider was so profound, so sacred, that Karin could often sense when he was in danger. Or distressed. He was not sure what heartbreak could be classified as between the two—surely, it was a little bit of both.

Michelle’s eyes flashed as she took in Karin standing on her hind legs, her wings outstretched in warning. Peter watched her for half a beat. He could still taste her mouth on his, the briefest brush of paradise. Gone.

Then, he was prince and dragon rider all at once. He turned around and raised his hand over his head, straight up in the air. Karin’s large eyes locked in on his flat palm and fell back on her front talons. She waddled over to her master and Peter felt her wet snout press against his hand. He guided his hand down and she followed him until her large head was knocking against his chest. He scratched his fingers between her eyes and hushed her. “I’m okay.”

Peter looked across to Michelle who was watching him with his dragon with an unreadable expression on her face. “I’ll be okay,” he said, straight to her. She looked away from him.

And then, their night was over.

* * *

 

The days that followed the two young royals’ tentative, world-shattering embrace were like sleepwalking for the prince. He knew that he spoke, he ate, he trained, he rode his goch, but it was a seamless dream. The tatters of the all-too-fleeting good moments had been pulled apart with one swift tug of a string and she had unraveled his entire life. He supposed she had done that the moment they had met.

With one look she had completely disarmed him. He knew he would never be the same, again. His life would forever be split into two sections—before Michelle and after her.

It was a ruthless, cosmic joke. He was going to marry someone he absolutely adored and she thoroughly loathed him. He had thought, hoped, that they had found some common ground that night with Karin away from the castle grounds. She had pushed him away without a second thought, tossed him away as if he were some dirtied rag, and that was when he had known the scope of their feelings were not the same. Peter adored her to distraction. She tolerated him when it suited her and never with a welcoming spirit. It was as if he was her burden.

‘Til death do them part.

Before Michelle, he had never thought to find real connection with the person he would eventually be arranged to marry. Michelle, oh heavens Michelle, had shattered every dismal expectation he had ever held about the monotony of royal marriages. And just when he had begun to hope for them, for their future, she dismantled his dreams with one frantic, panicked look. She did not want to marry him.

When he had suggested she would be his wife she had looked so disgusted with him. It had the power to turn his aching heart to stone.  

His attendants, his squire, even his father asked him in the days after their dragon ride about his spirits. He knew the whole world could tell he was irrevocably broken. The prince tried to find joy in the things that once pleased him, but there was so little time for him to find quiet his pleasures soured. Every day that inched closer to the wedding included endless planning sessions, fittings and dance lessons. Michelle always sent an envoy in her place. She as good as locked herself up in her tower.

That did nothing to improve his mood.

Two days before their marriage, Peter sat on the grounds just beyond the stables and sharpened his sword.

The shadow of King Thanos overtook Peter’s frame on the grass. He was an unmistakable  of a man. Almost as large as one of his fellow dragon riders, Banner. A man they called the Hulk on the mountain.

Peter did not lower the smooth stone he sharpened his blade with; instead, he moved his hand quicker across the metal making quick sparks burst off the ends. “Your majesty, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

King Thanos rumbled deeply, “These are my grounds. Am I not allowed now to walk them freely?”

The prince’s hand stalled on his blade. He tilted his chin up, “That, your majesty, is up to my father.”

“You dare-“ The king practically growled.

Peter stood and did not drop his blade. It hung lamely at his side as a clear sign of what would happen if the king continued to press the unamused prince. He hated this land. He hated this king. He hated what he had done to his people. And he hated that his absolutely wonderful daughter had enchanted him body and soul.

The king’s eyes flickered down to the blade in Peter’s hand. The young prince clenched his fist around the hilt, “I would strike you down this very moment if I did not think your death would cause your daughter distress. But as she is to be my wife, and only for that reason, will I stay my hand.”

He knew the evil that lurked under this king’s ivory skin. He had seen the pools with his own eyes where Thanos had bathed in the blood of innocent men and women. He had heard the stories about these caverns of hell where atrocities were commited, where the king did rituals to absorb the life force of his people. He knew what they said about him—that he bathed in the blood for so long that sometimes his skin looked almost purple from all the blood.

Peter was not finished, “I know what you have done. And may god have mercy on your soul for your evil nature, but you will find no mercy from me.”

“We have a bargain,” Thanos argued.  

“You have a bargain with my father,” Peter pointed out. “When I am king, if you still walk this earth, I will strike you down where you stand.”

Thanos beared his feral smile, “Would you not do it now, boy? Are you so afraid of your father?”

Peter’s hand inadvertently trembled around his blade. Anger was pouring out of him in waves. This man deserved to die. He knew it. His entire country knew that the only justice that his victims would find now would be at the end of his blade. However, Thanos had watched him and his father interact and Peter hated that he knew, that he knew that Peter feared his father’s own wrath.

He was not King yet.

Peter worked his jaw but he did not speak another word. He shoved his way past Thanos and went back to the castle where his bride-to-be would undoubtedly not want to see him.


	7. the wedding

The night before her wedding day, Michelle was restless. Sleep was for the peaceful and she was weary with the gravity of her responsibility to crown and country. The dazzling gold and white dress that hung on the back of her door disquieted her mind. More than once she turned her back to the dress to try and dampen the feeling the fabric staring at her, as if it was singing a gleeful tune of royal duty.

When the ladies came to her at the crack of dawn to twist her hair and dress her for the long march down the aisle, she still had not slept. Whenever she closed her eyes she could see the impossibly soft lace of her dress and beyond that, the crooked smile of a prison called prince.

Yet, Michelle did not fight her ladies when they roused her from her bed to prepare her for the day; nor did she stop them when they painted her lips and cheeks with rouge; nor did she stop them when they fit a crown into her curls and strapped her into her dress.

She did not recognize the woman that stood in front of the mirror when they were done with her. She was not Mary Jane the warrior that she had often imagined herself to be in her endless daydreams; no, she was the dolled up princess of her people. The people that had taken up arms against the same country she would be bound to in matrimony. But today she would have to do something more courageous than wielding a sword or riding a dragon. She was submitting her life and happiness to a foreign land that invaded her home for the safety and happiness all of her people. So, in this battle, her dress would be her armor and her smile would be her steel.

There were many ways to win a war.

And at the end of the aisle there was a promise waiting for her in that godforsaken Church, the promise that her home would be safe from foreign invaders. Princess Michelle could accomplish peace with a mere ring exchange. A marriage.

She caught her mother’s eye in the reflection of her mirror. She was standing wearily in the doorway. Michelle had never noticed before that perhaps royal marriage had been her mother’s burden as well. Her father was not an easy man. Yet, her mother did not flinch away from her responsibilities as Queen.

While it was a daughter’s misfortune to love her father, even a man like Thanos, Michelle gave her love to her mother freely. She was a quiet, purposeful woman and in the terror of her wedding day Michelle was seven again and she longed for her mother’s comfort.

Her mother crossed the length of the room and caught Michelle in her arms before she buckled to the floor. Emotion had overwhelmed her suddenly and sharply. The princess felt her mother guide the pair of them to the safety of the ground. “Hush, my child,” she cooed into Michelle’s hair, “We can only weep when the war is won.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Michelle admitted into the comfort of he rmother’s bosom.

The Queen smiled sadly against her child’s brow and gently kissed her forehead, “If I could spare you this, I would.”

Michelle wiped messily at her nose and looked into her mother’s eyes, the perfect mirror of her own, “I could run away.”

The older woman patiently hummed, “You could.”

But even as Michelle suggested running away, she could see the outcome of her cowardess. She could see the countryside alight in dragon fire and the battles that raged in farmer’s fields littered with scores of dead. Michelle could see the devastation of choice and that was when she made peace with her own.

She swallowed down her fear, “Help me to my feet, mother.”

When she stood, it was with determination in her bones. Michelle squeezed the tips of the Queen’s fingers and her mother clutched her hand fiercely, “My beautiful, brave girl.”

* * *

 

The crowd outside the Church whooped so loudly, Michelle could hear their cheers inside the entrance hall. One of her ladies had delightedly informed her that the throng of people who wished her wedding well extended for leagues and leagues and leagues. Michelle sent a panicked look in the direction of her mother who seemed to be the picture of grace and calm. It reminded Michelle who and what she was supposed to be for her people. She reminded herself that her wedding dress was her armor, her smile was her steel.

In battle regalia, she could not lose the day.

When her father joined the wedding party, the entire room dropped their heads and bowed deeply in respect for the King. Princess Michelle could not find the energy to show such courtesies. Instead, she lowered her eyes to the ground, a mockery of deference.

When she lifted her eyes, she saw the barely concealed hostility swirling in the dark pools of her father’s eyes. It did not fill her with shame or dread like it had done in the past. In fact, his scathing looks did not even chink her shields. Her armor was impenetrable. She would be a Queen like her mother before her and if the King was the blade of his country, the Queen was the heart and soul.

The heart and soul could not be beaten into submission, not even by Thanos.

Her father stiffly offered her his arm and she graciously took it.

Michelle took a final breath from her life before and when she exhaled the doors opened and a second life began.

There was music, but she could scarcely hear it over the thudding of her heart that roared like a lion in her ears. The pews were filled to the last seat with dignitaries from foreign lands and with faces of her court and the matching dignitaries of the Stark Lands. Michelle kept her eyes from the end of the aisle because she knew what was waiting there for her. Or who.

She was not ready. Michelle longed to hold onto one minute more of reckless pretend.

Her father covertly squeezed her arm. The unkind pressure reminded her that this whole day, this whole ceremony, was a performance and she had a role to play. She was the starring figure—Michelle and the man at the end of the aisle.

And so, she lifted her eyes.

There he was. He cut a fine figure in his princely garb, dripping in sharp metal, like a dragon’s spikes, and fabric tailored to perfection. His shoulders were surprisingly square and proud and behind his eyes there was a fire that rivaled his dragon’s spirit. He was dressed like a Prince and a Dragon Rider, no doubt as a clear sign to his people and her own who their prince truly was behind his finery. Peter’s temperament was more suited for the skies than the ground and if he had sprouted wings that day and flown away she would not have been surprised.

But he stayed firmly routed to the ground. His arms were folded neatly behind his back and he stood eerily still. All of the good humor she had come to know in him was washed away. If she had a role to play, Peter was her counterpart in his honor.

There was no fondness but there was also nothing severely mean about his demeanor. He was a blank canvas and Michelle wanted to pick up her skirts and run.

Then, he offered her his hand. His mouth was not soft but it was determined. Then, a piece of the boy she had known on the back of his dragon returned. **Together** , he seemed to say with his eyes.

She took his hand and let her father go. Once and for all. She charged into the future without a single glance back. There was nothing waiting for her there.

It had been days since she had been this close Peter. She had seen him from her window sparring in the courtyard but they had not spoken since that night with his goch. In her head, she had imagined a million things they might say to one another before this day, she dreamed up apologies and arguments in droves, but the only words they would say to one another now would be their vows.

The three steps to the altar felt like a marathon. Each one weighed her down to the moment. If Peter could tell how uneasy she was on her feet, he did not show it. However, he did keep a firm grip on her hand and a guiding hand on her back.

When they were on the riser above the crowd, they turned to look at one another and Michelle felt her chest flutter. His eyes. They were maddeningly intent on her own. They were not as soft and open as they had been that night with his dragon, and yet—

But she could tell there was something in him that was taking stock of this moment and committing it to memory. It was a precious day to him. Michelle was not yet sure how she would remember their wedding. Sometimes she was determined to hate him. And others, oh others, she would see the awkward set of his mouth and the unruly nature of his hair and inexplicable fondness would wash over her in a sea of an emotion she was too terrified to name.

The priest spoke. The specific words she could not discern. She was lost in the gentle pressure of their connected hands.

And yet, she found herself, as if possessed, being able to say the sacred words she had committed to memory. Her vows. Peter’s gaze was shockingly intense. If he had committed the image of her to a special place in his mind, he was now feasting on her promises. Her words were a source of food, sustaining him through the battle they raged together. An eye of the storm. With the world watching.

When her last words died on her lips, the priest bound her hands in cloth.

Only then, did the wall of sound that had kept Michelle from hearing the world give way. The Church was a crystal fortress of noise. She could hear every cough, whisper, fidget from the pews. But she heard Peter’s silence the keenest.

The priest asked again, “My Prince?”

Peter blinked.

He breathed.

She felt his thumb brush against the pulse point on her wrist. They were alive. Flesh and body. Bone and blood. Life and lovers.

Peter began.

“I give you all that is mine to give.” Michelle felt her chest rise and fall. “I give you my hands to build our home. I give you my heart to shelter our love.” His focused voice wavered but only just on the last word. He closed his eyes and Michelle reached out for him in the hall of hundreds. It was not a touch that would have been visible to their audience’s eye, it was the slightest pressure between searching fingertips, and so, in the heady pressure of their grand show, their vows went from belonging to the crowd to existing between only them.

He opened his eyes and locked on hers, “And should any seek to harm you, my body will be your shield. From this day, until my last day, I am yours.”

The priest bound Peter’s hands and they were connected by fingers and cloth. Michelle was certain if she pulled slightly the cloth would have given way and the bond would have been broken. But she would not unmake what had now been forged.

This vow was stronger than steel. And the center would hold. She would make sure of it.


	8. a bedding ceremony

The gazes of the crowd were sharp and suffocating as he sat perched at a table above their now-joined people at the wedding feast. The people below were drunk with revelry at his nuptials and, yet, the room was fragile still. Neighbor did not trust neighbor and everyone looked to Peter and his new bride for cracks in the foundation of their proclaimed love. The war was not yet over.

He knew it with every breath in his body, but mostly he knew Thanos. And evil did not lie down and die when it was still granted life. The only way to root out evil was to tear it out of the earth and set fire to it and Peter was a dragon rider—fire did not scare him.

Michelle’s billowy sleeves brushed against his arm for the hundredth time that feast to reach to for her goblet. It stole his traitorous breath every time. While he had stood with her and said the words and bound their lives to one another, Peter still had not forgotten what had happened between them that night nearly a week ago. He had not forgotten the pressure of her lips and the taste of her smile and the way she had denied him any affection in the face of his bleeding heart. He would honor his wife and do his duty, but he had been a reckless boy hungering for her love when she had none to give him. Peter would try to not play himself the fool, again.

He had come close during their wedding when she had glided down the aisle likened to an angel. He had taken her hand in his own and felt the spark of life glint between their desperate fingertips. He had watched her, as if in a trance, speak the memorized, sacred words of marriage and her voice had dumbfounded him so severely he had forgotten his own text. Only when she squeezed their hands did she revive him and he could speak. And then, like a miracle, they were married.

They had not spoken since their vows. The two sat shoulder-to-shoulder on a wedding dais in complete silence. Touch passed between them freely when they ate their food or thanked a guest for their well-wishes on their marriage, but neither dared to look at the other.

His father-in-law, King Thanos, seemed more amused by the awkward manner of their first hours of marriage than anyone else in the hall. He kept his distance from the table for most of the meal, plotting like some kind of feral beast, and just when Peter had begin to hope he would be sparred Thanos’ cruelty, his father-in-law swaggered over to the table. “Michelle, my dearest,” the King grinned and Michelle, the dutiful daughter, leaned over the table and kissed both of her father’s cheeks. Peter could not help the sudden image of Thanos’ face bathed in the blood of his innocent victims. The prince’s eyes prickled with rage and formed a painful fist under the table.

“Father,” Michelle spoke softly, and took her place again at her husband’s side.

“Peter,” Thanos rolled Peter’s name in his mouth like a pleasant sweet, “How are you enjoying the first hours of marital bliss?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Peter replied, short. Then, Michelle’s searching and dangerous hand found her way under the table and her tentative pinky brushed against his closed fist. Peter stalled and chanced a glance at his wife who gave away nothing in her face. She looked patiently at her father and Peter had to force his eyes off of her. “Your daughter is lovely,” Peter added, quietly.

His hand relaxed under the table and Michelle easily linked their pinkies together. His heart fluttered and he tried to make it stop but the thudding would not cease. She was his wife and she was holding his hand. Such a small gesture should not have absolutely disarmed her.

There was a word for what this sensation was and he knew it well. It had been present in every crevice of his heart from the moment he laid eyes on her that first morning of the tournament. Between them, there was no equality in the longings of the heart. And yet, he would make himself the fool every time for the smallest show of her affection.

“Lovelier still,” Thanos’ voice broke the spell between the two newly weds with his scratchy, hooded voice, “I imagine, when the bedding ceremony takes place.”

Peter’s jaw tightened and Michelle’s hand slipped fully into his suddenly. She was clinging onto him for dear life, like an anchor, and he did not deny her the comfort of touch. The bedding ceremony was a deplorable old tradition where the women were dragged off the wedding chambers by all of the men in the room. It was the crowd that removed all of her clothes and tossed her in the room for her husband’s enjoyment. It was a barbaric, old tradition that most states had done away with a century ago.

Peter had not expected he would be asked to engage in something so horrific.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” Peter said, his tone more dragon than prince.

Thanos huffed, “Of course there will-“

Peter let go of Michelle’s hand and slammed his fist on the table. The entire hall quieted and Peter ignored his father’s probing, furious eyes. It was his wedding day and he would one day be King. These people would be his subjects. They would listen to him speak.

With his eyes on Thanos, and his voice loud enough to carry the length of the hall, Peter repeated his words, “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Tradition dictates—” an unknown voice from the crowd interjected.

Peter scoffed, and interrupted, “There will be no bedding ceremony. She is my wife, she is to be my Queen and she will shown the respect she deserves from this day until her last.” His words were butchered version of their vows and he felt an energy surge between the pair of them. These words, these words now, were a reaffirming of his dedication to her until his last breath. If the wedding was for their people, this stand for her now was for them.

He glanced down at his wife and her eyes were unreadable. But the line of her mouth was soft and she outstretched her hand to take his in the sight of everyone in the hall. Peter took her hand in his and kissed the back of her hand. They had no sealed their wedding vows with a kiss. This bastardization of their ceremony would have to do.

Peter turned to his father-in-law and darkly asked, “Or should I clarify further still?”

* * *

 

Without the bedding ceremony, Michelle’s ladies led her away to her chambers to be dressed and prepared for their wedding night toward the end of the feast. There were certain traditions that Peter balked at and others he understood the importance of completing. The bedding ceremony was not a proper part of the sanctity of marriage, but they had spoken their marriage vows before God and to make their marriage valid there was one final ritual left to complete—consummation.

He had lain with women before, in the mountains where he flew free with his goch, but those women had never been his wife. The mountain had no rules, no master and, certainly, had no God. But Michelle was made in the very image of perfection and the thought of displeasing her or hurting her filled him with unshakeable trepidation. He would only have one wedding night. They would only have one chance to consummate their marriage.

For some reason, he could not help but think that he had one chance to prove to his wife that he was worthy of her love. If he failed her tonight, she would never, could never love him.

He dressed down to his undershirt and trousers and entered what would be their wedding chamber. It was cold and empty. Peter crossed to the fireplace and began to stoke the low embers, trying to coax it into a healthy flame.

The door opened and Peter froze. He did not turn around to look.

Michelle’s voice filled the air and made it impossibly sweeter, “What are you doing?”

Peter turned around and fell apart at the sight of his wife. She was draped in soft white fabric that was so sheer he could see the outline of her body in the firelight. Her curls wrapped around her face and framed her beauty in the most spectacular way. She was barefoot and brilliant and beautiful.

His mouth was dry, “Fixing the fire.”

She nodded distractedly, “Thank you?”

Confusion swirled in him and she must have caught on because she clarified, “The bedding ceremony is not an optional part of the wedding proceedings in my country. So, thank you. Truly.”

Peter gawked more stupidly at her. “I never would have let them—” He began. “—touch you,” he lamely finished.

“I know,” Michelle swallowed and began her slow march toward him. Peter stood paralyzed at the foot of the fireplace. When they were a breath away, Michelle shakily cupped his face. “I’m sorry, for everything.”

Peter shook his head, “No, I’m sorry. For everything. For pushing. For chasing you away. For expecting you to feel—”

“Shh,” Michelle whispered and knocked her impossibly soft nose against his own, “The past is in the past. We get to decide what our future looks like. Together.”

“And what does it look like?”

She exhaled and shakily ran her thumb across his bottom lip, “I’ll show you.”


	9. diamonds and pearls

Michelle knew what was expected of her as a new-wife on her wedding night. She had been nurtured and groomed for all of her wifely duties. And yet, her hand still shook and her insides trembled as she stood before her husband dressed in the flimsy coverings of her nightgown.

Her mother had told her to lie down and think of more pleasant things as her new husband took his pleasure. They had spoken for hours when she had flowered about how men enjoyed themselves often at the expense of their wives. Michelle had always believed that men were the only joyous participants in the marriage bed, but when she had kissed Peter in the moonlight with his goch perched in the grass, she had felt the faintest flutter of an unknown feeling. It was hot and heady and dangerous.

The pounding in her chest did not subside for days after. And then, she had peaked him sparring in the courtyard below her window and felt the same simmer of passion heating her blood. There had to be more than duty behind the closed doors of a marriage chamber. Or at least, she hoped.  

All Michelle knew for certain was that she was not going to lay down and let this night happen to her. No, she had decided to own the stars and the moon and the firelight from the burning embers in the fireplace he had stoked. She would look her destiny in the eyes and call him husband.

Peter’s lip puckered under her exploring touch.  “I’ll show you,” she repeated in a whisper. Her heart was erratic, her heart was scared.

And then, he cautiously wound his hand into her hair and it all stopped—sound, sensation, existence. “Tell me to stop,” he warned.

She curled her hands in his billowy white undershirt. The fabric was soft and it gave way when she grabbed at it. If clothes were rain, his would wash away. “From this day, until my last day, I am yours,” she said.

In the Church when she had said her vows, it had been automatic and without intention. Michelle had survived the ceremony but she had not said the words and meant them. Only when he had echoed the sentiments back to her had she really listened to what they meant and understood that a vow was not mindless chatter. They were a promise. They were bond bound in blood and time, never to be broken.   
He shuttered and his eyes slid shut, “Don’t use those words.”

She went on, “I give you all that is mine to give.”

“Michelle-“

“Peter, I am giving this to you. You cannot take what is freely given.”

She kissed him. The kiss was the softest press of lips, like a butterfly’s wings. Perhaps in another life they went at each other rabidly and without cautious intention. Perhaps the warrior Mary Jane she had dreamed up as a child was the woman that tore at her husband’s clothes with her teeth and consummated their marriage on the warm furs in front of the fire.

In this life, all of the courage in the world surmounted to one kiss.

He sighed into her lips and tilted her head back to kiss her more deeply. She was taller than him and it meant he could not steal her kisses, she had to offer them. Michelle did. Over and over again she met his searching lips with answers to his wordless questions.

She could almost taste the alphabet falling off his lips in a string of nervous sentences: _Do you want this? Should we stop? Can I touch you?_

To which she replied in the language of kisses: _Yes, I do. No, we shouldn’t. And, please touch me._

She sat on the freshly made bed with their lips still attached and he hunched over to accommodate her. His hands did not stray from her face and the curve of her neck. It was then, with her on their bed and his body bowed away from it, that she realized whatever she wanted from him that night she would have to initiate.

She was scared of the night. He was scared of something deeper. If she had to guess, she would assume he was scared of himself. Peter wanted this more than she could ever imagine wanting anything.

Her.

He wanted her.

She did not know why.

So, she explored the divots of his mouth with her tongue. It ran along the seam of his mouth and he gasped into the gentle prodding. Their tongues dipped and weaved and learned. He was a warrior. But there was no battle raging in this kiss. The only war that seemed to swirl in the room like an unwanted visitor was his own caution.

Michelle pressed her feet on the edge of the bed and pushed. She propelled herself backward on the bed. Their mouths lost each other and he was forced to stare at her breathlessly strewn on the bed. She hoisted herself up to lean against the mountain of pillows laid prettily on the bed.

He blinked. And flushed. And admired her.

The sheer intensity of his gaze sent a liquid heat between her legs and gave her the courage to barely stutter out, “Come to bed, Peter.”

She saw his hand twitch and fist, like he was physically restraining himself from whatever dragon was furling in his chest and egging him on. There was a beast that lay hidden beneath his bones and it pounded at the bars it was imprisoned in. She saw the fiery glint of that animal and did not turn away from his nature. Michelle embraced it and said, “Come here, Peter.”

His back shook, like the claws of the animal scratched down his spine. He lifted his eyes and ravaged her laid out body with his gaze. She was his and he was hers. And anything else was unthinkable.

Peter crumpled his hands in the cloth of his shirt and lifted it over his head. It was thrown to some nowhere place on the floor. His shirtless body made her pause. She had never seen a man in a state of undress so close before. Michelle had watched men from her window train in the courtyard and on occasion they would unburden themselves from their leathers and undershirts. She would watch like a thief the waves of their muscles as they trained. But up close it was more defined than she had ever dreamed.

Peter climbed on the bed and draped his body over her limps. He leaned in for a kiss but her cold hands found his chest. His muscles moved under her touch and he hissed, “Cold, Em. Your hands are cold.”

Michelle lightly rolled her eyes and dragged her husband into an enlightened kiss. He was all smiles as she tried to drag his mouth into a roaring burn.

Peter settled his hips between her own and she felt her body open like a sun-kissed flower for him. She straddled his hips enthusiastically.

Until, he led his body down the line of her body and between her legs. Over the fabric of her dress, he touched something foreign between the divot of her legs.

She jumped out of her bones and he immediately tried to soothe her with a kiss. It was between them, he assure her, “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. She was it, then.

He had experience. His hand was firm and knowledgeable. And there was a part of her that flared with anger at whatever faceless girl had known her husband before her. But that was then and this now. And when he gently pried her rigid legs apart, his hand found whatever secret place of pleasure she had always been denied. She gnawed on her lip, anxiousness flooding her system.

Until. Oh until. And then, thought flew from her mind.

The only words that she could cling to clearly were prayers. Heaven help her. God save her. Oh, how beautiful the world was now.

Colors were brilliant hues of diamonds and pearls. They glimmered and shinned. She clung to the back of his neck and he slowly coaxed her body into moving against her will. Michelle’s hips rolled and swayed to his command. And it was not unwanted.

Heavens no. She wanted. She wanted more than she had ever wanted in her life.

Before long, she was keening like a petulant child for something. And whatever that something was, it was desperately wanted and hard earned. She felt him grow between her legs as well.

She wanted what was hidden beneath his breeches.

Her inexperienced hand began to work on his ties and he shook his head, “Slow down.”

But she could not. She was racing toward the finish line of some gorgeous game. This, she thought, was dangerous. It was primal and completely beyond her control.

Michelle wiggled beneath his broad frame and he growled. She hitched up her nightgown. She knew, at least, how this last part was meant to go. And if it felt this good with only friction, their coupling had to be otherworldly.

“Peter, please,” she whined.

He pressed his forehead helplessly against her own. Peter brushed her hair back off of her face and tried to reach her glassy eyes, “Stay with me. Em, stay with me.”

But she was already gone. She was floating outside of her body and existing in a place she had never inhabited before. It felt so good. He felt so good. This felt so good.

Michelle impatiently knocked her hips up against him. If he expected her to think reasonably, he was sorely out of luck. He was driven her to the edge of paradise and the sunlight was too bright to see beyond their passion. 

She was somewhat aware of the noise he rumbled when she dragged him down into a filthy, unladylike kiss. There was nothing royal or dignified about this coupling. 

Here, under the safety of night, she was a girl like any other. And he was the boy that adored her. 

Whatever last ribbons of self-control he was clinging onto fled his body when she tugged her legs snuggly around his waist, demanding to be had. “Oh heaven, restore me,” he choked. There was a living pulse that breathed between the cracks of light between their two bodies. Brilliant and bold. 

He brushed aside the strings of his breeches and she felt his member spring up between them. It dug a well of fear in the pit of her stomach but the well was filled with warmth and passion in an instant. It was overflowing with it. 

“Peter,” she breathed. 

“Michelle,” he glorified her name. 

Her eyes fluttered open and met his for half a heartbeat. And then, with fragile care, he pushed himself inside of her. Whatever light was filling her rushed out of her body when he entered it. There was pressure, sharp and significant, and the slightest pinch that made her eyes sting. 

It was not the back splitting pain that her mother had warned her about but the discomfort was present. And she turned her face into the pillow to hide her eyes from him. 

Peter pressed his nose against her cheek and she could feel his muscles screaming for him to move, but he did not. He stilled and whispered lowly, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

The haze of lust that had blurred her eyes and sensation was torn away and she was laid bare. Her husband had taken her maidenhead. She was not longer a girl. She was a married woman. 

And it hurt. 

“Let me help you,” he pleaded. 

She did not respond. It took all of her power to keep the tears from falling. She had never had anyone or anything beneath her skirts before. If there was a gradual ritual that helped make this moment easier, she had never endured that training. 

Michelle almost yanked her body away when his hand fell between their bodies once more. But then, he was touching her again the way he had before and, miraculously, it helped. It did not take away the discomfort, but it dulled the ache. 

And soon, she was able to find her voice, “You can move.” 

He shook. It was so obvious that it was taking all of his veiled control to keep himself from having at his wife like a scoundrel. He was a honorable man. 

And there was a secret part of her that wanted him to have at her like that. Not now. But one day. She could not help but imagine him rutting into her and her own nails biting at his back as they explored each other’s bodies.

But there would be time, years, for that.

For now, she had to get to the end of the night. 

Slowly, Peter began to move his hips. And with the gentle ministrations of his hand, it was bearable, a breath away from good, even.

And it was fascinating to watch him up close. At first, when his hips began to roll into her own with each thrust, he was measured and leashed. But her body was lethal to his self-control.

His eyes began to droop, his lips parted in unrestrained groans and his pace hastened. Deeper and harder. Longer and lovelier. 

And then, like a marvel, something bloomed in her body. His thrusts began to feel wondrous. Her chest rose and fell and rose and fell. The little movement she could manage with his body boxing her into the bed, began to meet him for his thrusts. 

She was unpracticed and clunky. Yet, her husband did not seem deterred by her inexperience. 

“Peter,” she whispered for no good reason at all. Michelle wanted to breathe his name. 

He clutched at her thigh and suddenly his thrusts shuttered. He crushed her mouth into a kiss and she willingly reciprocated. The pressure of his thrusts began to lessen and she could not help but pout into his mouth. She had begun to discover something in the warmth of their marriage bed when he shuttered to a harsh stop. 

When he was spent, he collapsed into her body and brushed his tired mouth against the side of her cheek. When he could breathe, he apologized, “I’m sorry.” She felt him go limp inside of her and it was the oddest sensation. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he elaborated. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered into the night air. She was not sure why she said it, but she brushed her fingers through his hair and said, “Thank you.” 

He turned his head to look at her with stars in his eyes, “That will get better, I promise.”

She shook her head, “Just hold me?” 

Peter nodded and lifted himself off and out of her. He pulled her snuggly into the circle of his arms and she rested her head against his chest. “Michelle-” 

She shook her head, again, “For now, let’s just have this.” 

This, _him_ , she was slowly learning, was more than enough. 


	10. the invasion

Peter woke at the dawn.

When he was a boy, he slept in feathered beds with silk sheets and heavy curtains that kept the sun away so he could sleep until noon. When he was a young man, he tried to sleep in a rickety bunk with seven other dragon riders and their blankets were as thin as parchment. The wind would howl and beat against the mountain. Sleep was hard earned and rarely won there.

Now, as a husband, the sun tickled his nose awake. His nostrils flared and wiggled and crinkled and his eyelids fluttered open.

He felt an unfamiliar heat pressed against his side. Peter turned his head and his nose found a screen of dark curls.

Michelle smelled like lavender and lust.

The tentative sun tip-toed across their sheets and slowly illuminated more of their bed chamber. She had the blankets thrown loosely over her naked body and he could spot stretches of skin from her collarbone to her spine. Peter propped himself up on his elbow to admire her more.

The night before had not been exactly what he had imagined when he invisioned their wedding night. And, admittedly, he had spent many nights under the sheets in his guest chambers imagining what she would look like, how she would sound and how she would open for him like a flower.

It hadn’t been perfect—his wife was far too eager of a partner to move at his imagined pace—but it had been revolutionary. He had tried in vain to slow her down, to make her relish touch, but she could not be deteered. And he could not help the fire that licked at his blood, the dark whispers of the monster beneath his skin that told him to go, go, go.

So, he had her and hurt her.

When it was over, when the pounding in his ears subsided, the concern flooded into his system and he carried his fears with Herculean effort. She had brushed a curl of his unruly hair out of his face and asked him to hold her.

The night had fled and it took with it all his courage. The man that had pressed a sure hand between his wife’s thighs and kissed her curiously and ravenously was reduced to nothing. He could not bring himself to even touch her in the sunshine; so, instead, he watched her sleep and remembered.

Time passed as the sun rose further into the sky and when the castle began to bustle and brew, Michelle opened her eyes. Peter ceased to breathe.

There was something so wonderfully open and vulnerable as she looked back at him and as soon as it arrived, she threw up an inpenetrable wall behind her eyes and he was locked out. “Good morning,” she said, tucking her arm under her head.

“Good morning,” he echoed.

She gnawed on her bottom lip and the dragon within him flared up for a heartbeat. He imagined a universe where he was brave enough to lean across the sheets and suck that lip into his mouth. In that world, he rolled his wife over and kissed down her body until he found a home between her legs.

“Have you been awake long?” she asked.

“Long enough,” he supplied. He nearly told her that he woke with the sun and watched as the rays danced over her skin, lighting her up like a sky full of fireworks, like dragon fire.

She pulled the sheet up and sat up on their bed. It exposed her long back and Peter ached to run his tongue down the long line of her spine. His father had told him that a wife was a partner to be respected and the mountain had taught him that women formidable creatures of their own volition. In countries across the world, women were less than, subservant to the men. In the Stark Lands, his dearest and most beloved country, women were more indepenent than most lands but, unless they were women of the mountain, they were still seen as second to their partners. Men were the masters of their wives. This was the way of the world.

He knew what other men would say about his desire, to take it as he wished without any regard for his wife, but Peter did not want to be that kind of husband. He did not want to be that kind of man. He wanted to have a marriage of equal footing and he wanted his wife to want him in return. He wanted his one-day children to know that their worth was something earned, not afforded by their gender.

But more than anything, he wanted Michelle to look at him the way he knew that he looked at her.

Michelle wrapped their sheet around her body and stood. It slid off of him like water. And he was left naked on their bed. His wife’s eyes skirted down to his exposed member and he tried not to relish the curiosity that sparked in her eyes. She scowled when she noticed him watching her with a smug air he could not seem to banish.

“Please,” she rolled her eyes.

Peter swung his legs off of their bed and watched her collect her nightgown off of the floor where he had tossed it after they had lain together. He had wanted to sleep skin to skin. The nightsky gave him a blanket of security to ask such a forward request, then. Now, he could not even find the wherewithall to kiss his bride.

He wiggled into his pants, “What?”

“I’m allowed to look at my husband,” she insisted.

Peter put his hands up, “I never suggested you couldn’t.”

“Well,” she smoothed out her nightgown, “You were acting as though I was some lewd heathen, looking at you.”

It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes, “I most certainly was not. I want you to look at me.” A violent flush raced up his neck at his words, but he did not try to walk backwards from it. Even if his words made him feel more exposed than when he had been naked, he meant them. He wanted her to look at him, he wanted her to like him, he wanted her to want him. “Michelle, I—” he stumbled over his words, “—I want you to want to look at me.” She exhaled heavily. “I don’t hold out hope that our marriage is one of genuine affection and love, but, with time, I would like it to be. I’m not trying to trick you. That day by the lake…”

“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Don’t speak of that night.”

“Why not?” he countered. Peter took three large steps in her direction and snatched her hands in his own. “That night happened. I held you in my arms and you trembled. You liked Parker, the morning of the tourney. Who is to say, one day you  may like Peter? We are one in the same.”

She swept her hands out of his desperate hold. “I am doing my duty, prince,” she whispered. “You are steadfast and loyal to your country and kind—kinder than I had ever hoped for in a husband—but you invaded my country. You took my lands for your own and used a clever marriage to assuage my people. I want to trust you. More than you know. But I need time and the truth.”

Peter braced himself for her next words. He knew what she was going to ask of him. He nearly begged her not to ask. The truth was the bitter. “Why did you invade my country?”


	11. daughters of thanos

He wanted to get away from her question and chase away the storm the truth would unleash for another day, another hour, another minute. Their marriage was not perfect, but it was fresh and new. And Peter did not want to ruffle the tentative peace they had struck between them in the late hours of last night.

Michelle was not peaceful now. Instead, she stood expectantly at him and her eyes begged him for answers that only a handful of trusted Starkland advisors knew about. There were rumors about Thanos’ cruelty and slippery whispers from survivors that crossed the border begging for asylum, but Peter and his father had made a concentrated effort to keep the rumors buried. He did not imagine Michelle had any clue that her father was a monster.

King Anthony had decreed they would bring Thanos to justice quietly to keep the peace in a tumultuous land. Together, as father and son, they would stabilize Thanos’ broken government and Peter would marry his eldest surviving daughter to have influence over the foreign court. He would be king.

And now that it had all come to pass, now that he was a married man and he was to be made king in the coming weeks, Michelle had asked why he had invaded her home at all.  

It was not the way he wanted to spend the morning after their wedding night. He did not think he would have any kind of affection for his foreign princess, but the minute they had met eyes across those tourney grounds in soft, special morning light his heart belonging completely to her. She could do with it what she pleased—break it, cherish it—it was all hers. And perhaps it was selfish to hope that she would feel the same one day but if he told her the truth now he feared there could never be trust between them. Or affection. Or love.

He did not know how to tell her. He did not know how to lose her.

“Sit down,” he finally said and reached forward to guide her back to their bed.

She sharply yanked her arm out of his reach and snarled, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He dropped his head and whispered, “Please.” Whatever was in his beseeching tone, reached something in her he had only seen flickers of before because all of her features twisted in fury and then impossibly softened. She was an endless puzzle to him. One he wanted to spend hours studying and worshipping for its beautiful complexity.

Michelle sat on the edge of their bed and folded her arms over her chest. The white, flimsy material of her nightgown bunched and he had to put the husband in him aside and find the diplomatic prince. The image of her sitting with wild hair and in a sheer nightgown on a bed he had made love to her on made his blood sing. The tune was loud and snuffed out all rational thought.

He clenched his fists to bite his nails into his palm. The pain kept his irrational thoughts locked behind a rusty set of bars that could give way at any second.

Peter wanted to sit beside his wife on their bed but he did not trust himself to be so close to her and, also, he did not think he would be welcome at her side. While she was willing to listen to his explanation, she was not at all warm.

Expectantly, she prompted him, “Well, husband?” She used his title as a hammer on his fragile heart and if she had intended to crack it slightly, she succeeded.

Peter blew out a breath, “You have to know we are not conquerors.” She snorted and so he spoke in a rush, all at once, “We aren’t. My people by and large are peaceful.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Her nose crinkled prettily, “After you invaded my country and plan to remove my father from the throne?”

“Through marriage,” Peter corrected her.

“Through coercion and manipulation and the threat of dragons on our doorstep,” she said with her voice dripping in venom.

Peter took two long strides into his wife’s space and dropped to his knees. Her eyes widened. He knelt directly in front of her and looked up into her terrified but open face, “Michelle, I know you don’t believe me, but we had no choice.”

She shook her head, “Everyone has a choice. And you choose to invade.”

Peter closed his eyes and dropped his defeated head in his wife’s lap. She startled, but after a moment of hesitation that he could sense, she tangled her hands in his hair. She soothed his hair back over and over again, combing through his tangles.

He wanted a version of this every day. He wanted affection and adoration and trust and equality between them. He wanted a real marriage. But he could not build that marriage on lies or misconceptions or secrets. So, against her thigh, he began to unravel, “Your father is a monster.” There was no delicate way to say it and her gentle fingers stilled in his hair. He did not stop speaking, “He kills your people. He bathes in their blood. He torments and terrorizes children.”

There was a sickly kind of silence that took over the room. It decayed and died.

And Michelle pushed her husband off of her lap, “You lie.”

He fell back on his hands and followed his wife’s form as she stalked over to the fireplace to stew and pace. Peter shook his head, “I wish that were true.” When she spun around to shout at him, her eyes were stinging with tears. He felt a punch to his insides. Peter pulled himself off of the ground, “Michelle.”

“Don’t,” she shrieked. She put her hands up to keep him at an arms distance and he did not try and push her further. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s an evil man and an unkind ruler.” The truth was a curious thing. Once it was spoken out loud, often, it was impossible to bottle it back up. Peter continued, “And I would kill him where he stood if I knew it wouldn’t pain you.”

“You’re lying to me,” she dismissed him, but he could see the world cracking at the foundations around her feet. Years of fatherhood being called into question. “Besides, if what you’re saying is true, his victims would be dead. No one would live to tell the tales.”

He could see his marriage disintegrating before his eyes. There was nothing left between them now besides some meaningless vows that had spoken before God. She would always choose her father. He had hoped when she knew the truth she would recognize his words as fact and work with him to bring Thanos down.

He was no prince. He was a fool.

With no hope that he could fix what was broken between them, he drove-in the final nail in the coffin of their affection, “I know your sisters.”

Michelle’s eyes glazed over and all of her anger paused. She was suspended in a tank of disbelief. “My sisters disappeared years ago. They’re dead.”

“They fled,” Peter explained, “Beyond the border. To us. They sought asylum. I was fourteen and-.” The prince tried to block away the memories of the two young princess that had dragged their bloody, broken bodies into his father’s throneroom.   
“Your father had been grooming them to follow in his footsteps. To fight. To kill. To breathe cruelty. They saw it all. And they escaped. Nebula was nearly dead. Some contraption had torn her arm from her socket. Our healers worked for weeks to return her to some kind of health. And even then, she’s never fully recovered.”

Michelle covered her ears, so Peter spoke louder, “They’ve been working with my father to free Thanos victims. They go back and forth over the border saving who they can.” He took a futile step toward her, “You couldn’t expect us to keep letting it happen, Em. Eventually, we had to act. We had to invade.”

“You’re lying,” she clung to lies of her childhood fiercely.

Peter stood directly in front of her. His demeanor demanded her full attention and her eyes found his muddy ones. “I’m not. Gamora rides with our gochs now. She flies with Quill, my lieutenant. They are the Guardians of the Starkland throne. My throne.”

Her tear-stained cheeks left his heart worn and weathered, “Why are you doing this?”

He wanted to tell her that it was because he cared about her. Because she deserved to know. Because he wanted there to be only the truth between them. Because her sisters loved her and missed her. But all that came out was, “You asked.”

Then, he remembered the weeks before they had invaded.

Peter had been on the Mountain with Ned and the Guardians and the rest of the dragonriders. The plan from the beginning had always been for him to marry the princess after they invaded to ensure a peaceful transition of power. Peter had griped about his choice of life partner being ripped away from him. He had heard only bad things about the Thanosian princess. She was submissive and vapid and uncultured, and that was just what Nebula had snorted in his direction.

But there had been a moment when Gamora had sat beside him around the fire in the early hours of the morning and mused, “I haven’t seen Michelle since she was a girl. And now we are planning her wedding.”

Peter had groaned then, and Gamora squeezed his hand, “She wanted a sword for her seventh birthday. My father hadn’t thought it ladylike.”

The petulant prince had retorted, “He let you and Nebula fight.”

She shook her head, “It was not swordfighting. It was torture. And it wasn’t for honor. It was for his legacy, not our pleasure. We were as caged as she was but they were fastened of different things.”

“I don’t want to marry someone I hardly know.”

Gamora had sweetly kissed his cheek, something he knew Quill would prickle at when she told him later, and shrugged, “You’ll get to know her. Be open, Peter. She might be the love of your life.”

At the time, he had thought Gamora was trying to comfort him on his impending nuptials but now he wondered if she had known something he had not. Perhaps, she had always seen the steel underneath her baby sister’s skin.

Michelle turned away from him, “Please leave.”

“Michelle—”

“Peter. Go.” She said with deafening finality.

And with one final look in at the long line of her back, he retreated toward the large wooden door in the corner. It slammed shut behind him and he slid down the wall. He was not sure how he was breathing.  He was not sure how he would survive this pain. He had known true happiness for only a night.


	12. an antiquated ritual

She lingered in the corner of the fiercely bright, unforgiving room with her anxious and uncertain fingers clenched in knots behind her back as her ladies and several key members of her father’s government filed into her bed chambers to inspect her wedding sheets. All her life she had been schooled that a royal bedding ceremony was a performance, to be on display for the entire court to scrutinize and for one skeletal and viciously mean holy man to legitimize. Every Sunday since before she could remember the pinched nose priest who enthusiastically inspected her sheets now had sneered down at her from his pulpit and oft warned her that her virginity was the people’s gift. He had told her more times than she could count that she ought not spoil what was not hers to gift. Only her father, the King, could spend it, like some kind of token or treasure. 

And so, the little patch of red blood signifying the loss of her virginity was not only required, but glorified. She was less a woman, a girl of flesh and blood, to her father’s advisers than prime stock to be sold and had at the highest price. 

When Peter had stood his ground about their bedding being a private affair— instead of the age-old-tradition where a crowd of people watched the royal bedding behind a curtain— she had hoped that the inspection of the sheets would be cast aside as well. The Stark Lands found such traditions gratuitous and vile. Thanosians lived and died by their rituals and rules.

She stood alone, frightened and nauseous, as six men in deep purple robes inspected her sheets.

Her mind reeled with the worst, most terror-inducing thoughts and she suddenly wished that Peter was at her side. 

When she had dismissed him from their chambers earlier that morning, Michelle had not thought about the inspection. His words, his lies, had rattled her down to the marrow of her bones that all she could was send him from her sight. He had measured her pressure points and he had unkindly pressed them. It had been a long time since she had thought on her elder sisters. With their disappearance so long ago, their faces were no more than a distant memory. Her father had pulled down the portraits of his sisters and had them burned to spare himself the pain when their bodies had not been found. Her mother had locked herself away for three straight months and Michelle had been left to become the princess and sole heir to her people. 

The law forbid their names to be uttered. And Peter, with little care for her wellbeing, spoke their spirits back into existence and now Michelle was haunted by them. 

She wanted to know why he his people had invaded her lands. Instead, he teased her with empty taunting of long-dead sisters. 

And yet. 

She knew she had not imagined his embrace the night before. She knew how he held her and how he kissed her and how he shallowly rocked his body into hers with such restrained and reverent vigor that she felt her fingertips collapse into starlight. 

Michelle could feel his very heartbeat in each of his kisses as they lavished and licked the inside of her mouth with precision. She felt his hand press between her damp thighs and find blissful, beautiful peace unlike any she had ever known. 

She feared the way he looked at her. It was an open, passionate gaze. He had fixed her with such passions the first day they had met under the false pretenses of Mary Jane and Parker—the day he had pressed the blue ribbon, her token— that she was beginning to question if perhaps he did not lie to her at all. 

And such thoughts were far more dangerous than any she had ever conjured. Mary Jane, the knight of her daydreams, could stomach such unpretty wonderings, but Michelle was not Mary Jane. She was the princess of her people, left alone and helpless as a group of old, perverted men sniffed and eyed her bedsheets with barely contained glee. 

Ebony Maw preened at Michelle and her skin crawled. “My most noble and royal princess,” he bowed his head and she forced herself to stand tall. “We rejoice. Your bedding has been found a legitimate and holy affair. You are truly a daughter of our great lord, Thanos.”

Michelle dug her nails into the palm of her hands and found some semblance of her speech, “Your holy-“

“Please,” Ebony Maw waved his bony hand and bared his crooked teeth, “Your highness, I have known you since you were a girl. You may address me by true name.”

The princess repeated, “Your holy lordship, if you are quite finished, I have many duties to attend to today.”

Ebony Maw’s jaw ticked but his bit his tongue and bowed deeply, “Of course, your highness. My apologies.” He sent a severe, unforgiving look at his followers and one-by-one each of the figures in purple filed out of her room. Before Ebony Maw took his leave, he remarked, “Your foreign husband must be wanting of your attentions.”

The air in the room chilled. She could not help but imagine her husband’s violent red magic lashing out at Ebony Maw and enclosing around his neck. In this daydream, Peter squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until his holy lordship’s neck hung lamely from his shoulders. A vicious end for a vicious end.

Ebony Maw snarled a smile and with a click of his heels exited the bed chamber. 

When the heavy wooden door slammed shut, her ladies all began to flutter around her, preparing her for the day. Michelle stood motionless as they primped and prodded at her. It took nearly an hour before she was presentable. One of her ladies positioned her in front of the mirror and Michelle openly gawked at the reflection staring back at her. 

Her ladies had laced her into a forrest green dress with a leather bodice that invoked the Stark Lands’ dragon-riders leathers. They had tightly tied back her hair into a series of braids that piled in a ponytail at the top of her head. She looked fierce and strong and foreign. 

She was made a Stark Lands’ lady and now she looked like one.

“We dressed you for battle, your highness,” one of her ladies answered the question Michelle did not voice. “For, make no mistake, this wedding is nothing short of that.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, brushing her fingers across the intricate details on the bodice. 

“Your husband, the prince, had the dress made for you. He thought it would suit you.”

* * *

 

Michelle bounded down the long, winding steps of her father’s castle without any thought or plan. At last, her feet were taking her to answers, to the truth.

She whipped past council members and courtiers that openly gasped at their princess’ sudden and dramatic change of attire, at the way she whipped down the stairs. There was something of Gamora in her recklessness. There was a twinkle of mischief in her eye like Nebula. 

The princess only stopped galloping when she saw him. 

Her husband was sparring in the courtyard with his squire and they were not evenly matched. Peter swung his sword high and fierce, while his squire simply tried to keep up with the brutal strikes. He was beautiful. 

An unpolished, ruff beauty, but a beauty all the same. 

She had seen him spar many times since his arrival in her country and it had never been colored with such abject despair. He often laughed while he sparred. He was a jovial man, a cunning warrior and obviously a fierce member of his riders. There was none of that joy or laughter now. 

Their morning was oozing off of him in unpleasant waves. 

But her eyes caught something more remarkable then his sour demeanor or the silly curl of his hair. 

She spotted a blue ribbon tied around the hilt of his sword. It whipped around in the air like the tail of a dragon every time he struck a blow against his opponent. It was the same ribbon she had granted him the day of the tourney. 

He had kept her token. 

Michelle’s cautious heart cracked open and she finally let the light in.

“Peter,” she said, her heart thundering in her chest. 

Her husband froze and his squire managed to get a point on his master. Peter hissed from the impact, but he did not dare move his eyes from his wife. She tried not to squirm under his gaze but it was piercing. 

“Michelle,” his mouth moved around her name like a prayer. 

“Take me to my sisters.“


	13. dragon-flight home

The wind whipped against the prince’s red cheeks as his goch flew violently through the clouds en route to his home country. By dragon, the sky journey to the Stark Lands would take nine hours. Peter was determined to make it there sooner.

When his wife had appeared to him in the Stark Lands leathers he had commissioned for her, like a vision from his dreams, he knew he was a lost man. He would not deny her anything. Even a request to see her sisters.

His father would be furious when he learned of Peter’s reckless decision. Gamora and Nebula were warriors of the Great Legions and Peter was not King yet. He did not have the authority to command the Stark Lands’ armies. Even his own battalion of dragon riders was at the discretion of his father. But more pressingly, King Anthony had commanded Peter to keep Gamora and Nebula a secret from his new wife. They were a political card the Starks would play if Thanos stepped a stubby, revolting toe out of line.

He had made these promises to his father before he had met his wife that morning of the tourney. He was a boy, then. He was now a man. Allegiances shifted. His heart was fully and completely hers to cherish or ruin.

She pressed her nose into the hollow of his back, between his shoulders, and held onto him so tightly he willed himself not to pass out. Michelle had only flown by dragon once and Karin had not taken to her. His wife and his goch had not ended that night on good terms. He Karin flew as hard and as fast and as reckless as she could manage to spook the woman that had wounded her master.

Lengthy flying journeys took years of training to grow accustomed to without getting violently ill.

Yet, his wife was taking to it rather well, as if she had always been meant to take to the skies. Thanosian law be damned. Every minute he learned that he loved her more and more. When he thought there was no further room in him to make way for such passions, she proved him wrong. His heart was a bottomless cup and she filled and filled and filled it by simply being herself.

They did not speak the entire journey back to his country, to the Mountain. He would not have been able to hear her over the ferocious winds anyway. But the silence did give him a lot of time to think and his mind was the most dangerous enemy he had ever known.

When they landed just outside the base of the Mountain camps, Peter remained seated for a moment longer. He held onto the silence, even if it was an enemy, it was a familiar one. Michelle lowered herself down from Karin and the beast snarled her gums at the princess. She jumped back and Peter propelled himself into action.

He stood between his goch and his wife. He clicked his tongue in a series of intricate commands at his dragon and she rolled over on her back. The prince pressed his hand to her snout and whispered, “Behave yourself.” The great beast blew smoke out of her snout in his face.

Peter turned around to address Michelle but the words died in his mouth. There, standing in a green dress with dragon rider leathers woven into the bodice and her hair wrapped in braids at the top of her head, Michelle looked at home on the Mountain. The setting sun highlighted all of her features and she was powerful. He inched closer to her in the hopes that some of her light would shine down on him for warmth. Look at me, lady, he thought helplessly.

She turned her gaze on her husband and his heart foolishly flipped.

Michelle turned back out to look over the leagues of lush green mountains that stretched beyond the edge of the earth. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Peter cautiously stepped beside her and admired the landscape of his country. “Yes,” he nodded.

She fixed her gaze on him and his heart raced, “This is where you trained?”

“And lived,” he added. “All dragon riders are sent here when they’re eleven. I did not join the legion until I was fourteen. I had other duties to attend to as a prince.”

“Five years,” she sighed, longingly, “You had five years in this place.” He wanted, desperately, to pull back the curtain and peak at her thoughts. She was having a transformative experience on the Mountain that he was barred from. It was her moment. Perhaps it was unfair of him to want to share in it with her.

Her eyes fluttered close and the last whisps of sunshine cast shadows in the creases of her features.

She moved him.

The prince pressed his forehead against her cheek and submitted an offering to the universe in the majesty of her name, “Michelle.”

She shuttered. “Take me to my sisters, Peter.”

* * *

 

Lieutenant Quill stood post outside of Captain Gamora’s tent. The rider in red smiled at his prince and gave Peter a swooping imitation of a bow, “Your princeliness.”

“Enough, Quill,” Peter blushed. “If I have told you once I have told you a hundred times—”

“I know, I know,” Quill rolled his eyes, “You only want your royal ass kissed on Tuesdays.” The prince felt his wife’s shoulder brush against his own as she stepped next to him. Quill’s eyes clowded in confusion and, then, far away recognition. There was something of Gamora in Michelle’s face and no one in the camp knew Gamora better than Quill. “Peter—” Quill warned in his tone. The entire legion knew that King Anthony wanted to keep Gamora and Nebula a secret. To defy the King was treason. Except, as his son, Peter took treason more as a suggestion than a rule.

“I know,” Peter slid his palm into his wife’s hand. “I could not keep this from her.”

Those words seemed to resonate with Quill. They both loved Thanosian princesses. It was a particular burden that few had the pleasure to know.

The lieutenant pulled back the flap to the tent and Michelle released Peter’s hand to step inside. Peter moved to join her but Quill forced his way between them and blocked his entrance. 

Peter squared his jaw and barked down his lieutenant, “Out of my way, rider.” 

“Some journeys,” Quill said, “we have to take alone.”

The flap of the tent fluttered shut and Peter was left hopelessly alone outside, barred from the private reunion of royal sisters.


	14. saudara and adik

The Gamora from Michelle’s memories was cold and distant. 

The woman in front of Michelle now radiated such unfathomable warmth she did not resemble her once detached sibling. Her sister’s hair had been dipped in magic dye that made the tips of it glow a radiant purple. She had two silver scars that were faded with age on her cheekbones and her mouth had distinct smile lines. The most noticeable change, though, was that she looked well-fed, well-kept after and happy. 

Gamora’s head jerked up when the tent rustled, but her sister’s eyes did not leave the marked up map of Thanosian territory on the tent’s wooden table. With an exasperated smile, Gamora quipped, “Peter, how many times have I told you? Keeping watch is not watching me work.” 

Faced with the prospect of talking with her sister after nearly ten years of absence and mourning, Michelle froze. She had buried their memories with those empty boxes in the ground on the day of her sisters’ funerals. There had been months of silence from both of her parents and years of sadness she had carried alone. And yet, they were alive, which could only mean one thing— her husband had been telling the truth. 

Michelle was quiet for too long because Gamora glanced up to inspect the cause of silence and all of the warm features Michelle had detected when she entered the tent melted into steel. In the time it took Michelle to gather her thoughts, Gamora had leapt over the wooden table, pulled out a small double-sided blade and snarled, “Who are you? Where’s Peter?” 

The princess had expected their reunion to be unpredictable but she had not expected to be held at knife-point. The metal of the blade was cold. Michelle swallowed thickly and willed herself not to tremble, “The Prince is fine.”

“Not that Peter,” Gamora remained strikingly still, like a snake waiting to strike. “I meant Quill.”

“Oh,” Michelle whispered. “He let me in.” Gamora did not look convinced, so Michelle insisted, “No harm has come to him.” The blade kissed Michelle’s skin and she winced. The little girl that lost her sister found her voice, “ _Saudara_ , please.” 

Time melted away. Her sister with the silver scars dropped the blade in her fist and the metal clattered on the ground between them. Gamora’s callused hands clasped Michelle’s cheeks, “ _Adik_?” 

The endearment from their childhood brought violent, hot tears to her eyes. _Little sister_ , it meant. It had been so many long years since she had been known as a little sister. Her father had erased Nebula and Gamora from every family portrait and had outlawed the utterance of their names. She had been forced to forget them or at least to try. “How?” Gamora implored, brushing the pad of her thumb across Michelle’s cheeks. 

“Peter,” Michelle said in lieu of an explanation. 

“Quill?”Michelle shook her head, 

“No. My Peter.”

She regretted referring to her husband in such a manner when Gamora smirked in an unfamiliar way, in the years before her sister had not been known for her mirth, and teased her, “Your Peter?”

“He **is** my husband,” Michelle felt her cheeks grow hot. She resisted the urge to glance toward the flap of the tent where her husband stood helplessly outside. Yet, that was when it hit her. Her husband had indeed told her the truth. It meant many things— that her sisters were alive, that his kingdom’s invasion had been less of a coup and more of a tactic to protect the innocent, but, most of all, it meant her father was a murderer.

Michelle’s knees gave out and she loathed that here on the Mountain, the Tower, she was acting more like the flimsy princess that had fainted that morning on the tourney grounds than the dragon rider that was worthy of the leathers she now sported. Gamora held her upright and concern flooded her features, “Adik? _Adik_ , are you alright?” 

The two women settled in nearby chairs and Gamora brushed a kiss on Michelle’s head. It reminded her of their mother. “Peter was right,” Michelle breathed. 

Understanding welled in Gamora’s eyes. Michelle supposed they had both been betrayed by father and country. If anyone was going to understand the meaning of her words, it would be her sisters. Gamora took Michelle’s hand, as if she wanted to catch up on years of simple, reassuring contact between them, “He told you.”

“I did not believe him. Couldn’t–”

“It is unbelievable,” Gamora said gently. “Thanos believes what he is doing is akin to a higher purpose, a holy cause. That swine Ebony Maw is willing to sanctify every atrocity by calling it mercy.”

“He is murdering innocents. Bathing in their blood,” Michelle countered. The shock of the moment gave way to another, more urgent worry, “Where is Nebula?”

Gamora grabbed Michelle’s cheeks and it immediately centered the young princess. Her sister had blacksmiths hands, but they were soothing and warm and her sister’s hands. Oh, how she had missed her. The years had been long and painful. “The altitude makes her bones ache. She spends her time in the capital. She is an advisor to the King.” Gamora’s eyes flashed with barely concealed rage, “She is not what you remember. Thanos saw to that.” 

“Enough,” Michelle stood suddenly. Gamora clamored to her feet as well. It was too much information. It was too much change. It was too much joy and heartache for one day. Her entire life had been a lie, a carefully constructed story to sell her off to the wealthiest suitor when the time was right. What her father had not anticipated was that the man she would call husband would be an invader and that her once dead sisters would be leading the charge against him. The warrior Mary Jane would have been able to pick up a sword and join the fight. Princess Michelle was too tired to do anything other than rest. 

Gamora folded Michelle in a fierce hug and held her for a long time. Michelle felt it. The loss of opportunity. They had missed out on so much time together and so many precious years. She had missed everything from Michelle’s first surge of magic to her wedding day. Her sisters should have been there for it all. 

She loathed her father. 

She loathed that she feared she did not loathe him at all. 

Her eldest sister kissed her forehead and promptly ordered her to bed. Michelle did not want to leave her sister’s side, for fear of it being nothing more than a silly dream. She was afraid if she left now they would never see each other again. Yet, in the thickness and all-consuming nature of that fear, she could not help but smile, “You sound like dragon rider.”

Gamora folded Michelle into one final hug, “I am.”

* * *

 

She was led to a barrack on the outskirts of the camp by the same lieutenant that had been standing guard outside of Gamora’s tent. Michelle watched him with intense scrutiny, this Quill. He was broad and bulky and lumbered through the camp instead of walking. Yet, he had a light-footed ease about his person, like he could break into a jovial dance at any moment. She could scarcely believe that her eldest sister had found a partner in such a man. 

Quill uneasily said, “Gamora told me about you, your highness.”

“Where is my husband?” Michelle ignored him primly. 

The lieutenant deflated noticeably, “I am taking him to you. As you well know.”

She did not dignify him with a response. Michelle had lost so much time with her sisters and now that she had her back, she was to be expected to share her with this man? Her own nuptials had been out of her control, but Gamora had chosen this life partner of her own volition. Michelle dared not give life to the fear that her sister would choose Quill over her now that they had reunited. But it stole unbidden into her mind. 

When they arrived at the small barrack with the royal seal branded into the aged wood, Quill stepped in front of the princess and spoke boldly, “I know this day has been a shock to you, princess. But you cannot simply wish me away. I am here. I am hers. And I consider myself a pretty long-term problem. So, with all do respect, get used to me.” Her jaw dropped slightly at his audacity and Quill dropped his head in a goofy bow, “Sleep well, Mrs. Parker.”

The invocation of that name harshly propelled back to the tourney grounds when a simple bannerman introduced himself to a simple lady’s maid as Parker. 

She remembered when they stood outside her father’s throne room after her fainting episode and he told her about his name on the Mountain. He had been known as Parker here, among these legions. There was a person and a life that he had lived here that had been crucially sacred to him. And without question, he had let her board his dragon and he allowed her to enter his most inner, private world. The Mountain was not a place for outsiders. She knew now her husband did not consider her one. She was as much a part of his people as anyone else here. The light that had flooded her heart when she saw him sparring in the Courtyard that morning, returned and she felt like she carried sunshine in her blood. It raced and sang his name all at once. 

Mrs. Parker.

When she opened the door Mr. Parker, the dragon rider and not the prince, stood hunched over the fireplace of the one room hut with a severe expression on his face. He looked as if he had been abusing his thoughts past the point of exhaustion. “Peter?” she whispered.

He whirled around on her and took a step forward as if to embrace her, but he did not take the second step. He stood paralyzed in the small room. “Michelle. Are you…was it…” Peter wrung his hands, “H-how are you?” 

“Why did you bring me here?” she challenged him. 

His face flickered a wealth of emotions. “You know why,” he said devoid of any kind of hope. And then, for the first time, she heard the unmissable kernel of honesty souring his tone. Her heart banged with the newfound knowledge that he thought she did not feel harbor any fondness for him. It had taken the truth about her father and a long-lost sister to finally see it, but the prince truly cared for her. The man on the tourney grounds, Parker, had been the man beneath the pomp and ceremony all along. 

She traveled the short distance between them and brushed some of his wild hair out of his eyes, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you,” he barely managed to voice past the thick crack of emotion in his lodged in his throat. There were maddening flicks of gold in his eyes that she noticed in the amber glow of the fire. 

The princess brushed her bottom lip carelessly against her husband’s mouth, which elicited the sharpest moan from deep in his gut. It made her shiver. “Then,” she whispered as his impatient hands curved their way around her waist, “make love to me, husband.”


	15. two dissonant bodies

Peter slid his hand from his wife’s waist up the long line of her arched spine. The leather of her bodice was tough under his fingertips, which starkly contrasted how open and inviting her intoxicating lips were to his kisses.

It had been a little over a day since he had stood as rigid as a toy soldier at the end of the aisle in that monstrosity of a Church awaiting his marriage ceremony. Then, he had been escorted back to her drafty, cold castle and wrapped her in his uncertain arms to consummate their marriage. Only one night ago.

So much had changed in a day.

The sunshine from that morning had ushered in the unbearable truth about his country’s invasion and her father and sisters and he had thought he had lost Michelle before he ever had the chance to have her. And yet, she was now encircled in his arms with her feet firmly planted in his home country and she knew the whole truth from the invasion to his love.

Michelle loosely hung her arms around his neck and Peter’s traveling hand anchored itself in her hair at the base of her head. Her braids slipped through his fingers like water. “Michelle,” he roughed out her name thoughtlessly.

“Tell me again,” she sighed before pulling him impossibly closer to her warmth by the collar of his tunic.

“I love you,” he easily admitted. His tongue dipped into her mouth and he deepened their slow, heady kisses. They labored backwards a few steps before he gently lowered her down on the furs strewn lazily in front of the raging fireplace. The wood crackled and Peter could have sworn the sound was his heart breaking open from too much love. He had never possessed so much feeling. It felt like it was too large and too intense for his body.

Her head pillowed on the furs beneath him and Peter propped himself on his elbows to gaze down at his wife. She was illuminated by the firelight. The flickers of the fire complimented her, but he suspected all light suited her well. His wife was a siren— dangerous and beautiful. No, better yet, his wife was a goddess— sublime and ethereal.

Better still, his wife was Queen. And long may she reign.

Michelle gnawed on her lip and whispered, “Peter?”

The prince rested his forehead against her own, as if to bow to her in this contorted position, “Yes?”

She did not speak, but his wife grabbed his wrist and guided it down to outline the length of her torso. If he was not going to be daring she would be for the both of them. She had lovely round breasts and her stomach fluttered underneath his hand as it explored downward. It proceeded lower and lower until his fingers brushed her thigh. Peter slanted his mouth over hers eagerly. He had so much restraint and she spent it generously with each little moan she exchanged for his sanity. 

The first time they had made love it had been life-altering, but it had run away from them so hurriedly that before he knew it the coupling was over. He had not had time to kiss his way down her bare body and take her pert breasts in his mouth. He had been shaken at his core and she had been left in the dust of passions. The prince was determined for them to be partners in this union and in all things. 

Michelle curved her body against his and he managed to swipe his restless hands underneath her body. Her spine was long, her bodice was tightly shaped to her body and he wanted it off. The royal prince crushed his mouth to the slope of his wife’s neck and left hot, wanting kisses to her skin. She shivered under his attentions. 

“Peter, if you don’t–” Michelle barely threatened. 

“I know,” he cut her off with a searing kiss. “I’ll get there. Don’t rush me, wife.” 

She whimpered into his demanding kiss. When he pulled away, his brain filled with thoughts of only her, she snapped, “Sometime in the next century, perhaps?”

He dropped a laugh into her neck and he felt her fingers card themselves into his messy locks. They fell into companionable silence with his body pressing hers into the furs and the fire as an easy background to their breathing. 

In the silence, Peter’s exploratory hands moved up and down her body, learning her curves slowly and softly. Occasionally, she would make a small approving noise that he grew to understand as encouragement. Emboldened, he guided her arms up over her head and clasped their fingers together. She looked up at him, her eyes barely visible in the shadows of the crackling fireplace, and he faltered. 

Their next kiss eased his mind. The flurry and fury and violence of his life slowed and stopped until all that was left was her and them and this moment. He had spent so long looking for peace. As a prince and a warrior, every moment of every day was a battle. It was all he had ever known. There was a comfort in the rage of battle and the feeling of Karin’s scales under his body rising and falling as they flew into the fray. It was exhilarating. 

But none of that had ever made his heart race as much as the unbelievable woman laying underneath him on the cozy furs. She was the peace that wars were fought for and perhaps he had not earned such grace, but he would take it regardless. 

“What?” she said, flexing her fingers that he had pinned down to the furs. 

He shook his head, “Nothing.” But it was not nothing. She was everything. 

She lifted her head off the ground and pressed her mouth against his eagerly. He took each passion of hers and returned it tenfold. 

They kissed for a long time and forgot their sins to find new ones between their bodies. 

Peter let her hands go and sat himself up to unlace the ties of her bodice. He had torn another bodice of hers loose the day of the tourney. He had drawn his knife and cut away the offending fabric to help her breathe. She was breathless again but when he undid her bodice it stole more of her breath. 

It lay uselessly open and her breasts were mostly exposed. The only thing that covered them was the flimsy, sheer tunic. He swept it down so he had full access to her skin. Peter dipped his head between her breasts and pressed kisses on her chest. His wife keened and Peter’s hand encircled her left breast to tease it, while his mouth explored her right breast. 

Her nipples pebbled– one in his mouth and the other in his hand. 

She writhed under his firm chest and tried to brush aside his own tunic. Peter was loathe to pull his body away from hers, but she did not relent. So, he sat up and tugged his own tunic off before surging down to kiss her fiercely. 

They were chest to chest. And she met each of his kisses with barely restrained vigor. 

He searched her mouth with his insistent tongue and she cried out some pale imitation of his name. She did maddening and magical things to his mind. He could not be his rational self with her and she tangled him up in the best ways. “Darling,” he heaved. 

Michelle stole another kiss and promptly shut him up. Her hands reached for the ties on his trousers. 

The night before when she had undone his trousers and they had found each other in the starlight, it had ended too quickly. He wanted her for longer than a moment. Brushing aside their clothes and rutting like a pair of animals was not the kind of love he wanted to show her. They could have more than that. 

“Shh,” he hushed against her lips. “Michelle, let me show you.” He hefted his body off her wanting one and, on a reflex, she reached up to grab for him. He caught her hand in his own and patiently kissed her palm, “Let me show you.”

He knew she did not know how this dance went. She had been held a prisoner in her father’s castle and denied the pleasures of youth, while he had been sent to train on the Mountain and had lived. Once, he had thought his life had been a cage of royal responsibility and duty. But since her, he had learned that the life he had known was freedom. 

As Queen, she would never be locked up, again. He would ensure it. 

His hands tugged her skirts up and Michelle’s knees locked closed. Her eyes filled with concern and trepidation. Peter kissed the patch of skin between her eyes tenderly. “I promise I won’t hurt you. And if you would like me to stop, you say so. You are in control, Michelle.”

There was something in his words that spoke to her and lit a defiant fire deep in her person. He wondered if it was that he dared to be gentle or if he gave her leave to speak her mind. Or perhaps it was something softer that he could not speak to. Whatever the cause, she slowly pressed her legs open and Peter cupped her face and kissed her lips. 

Her skirts flared around her waist and Peter left her with one final kiss before he scaled down her body and settled between her legs. She sat up on her elbows and watched him with doubt swirling, “Peter what–?”

“Michelle,” he hummed, kissing the inside of her thigh. Her whole body shivered at the unexpected contact. “Let me show you.” She gnawed weakly on her bottom lip and nodded. 

As a royal prince, Peter had known many women. But none compared to his wife. 

When he plunged beneath her skirts to lave at his wife, he knew no other woman would ever compare again. Her felt her stomach jolt and her body seize at his offense. She whimpered and whined at the new feeling. He pressed her face closer to her body and indulged in the warmth and taste and smell of her arousal. She was an instrument and he was a musician, ready to play great etudes on her body. 

He was designed for her pleasure. And with every moment of blissful exploration, she bloomed open to him like a flower in Spring.

It went on for a time, as all seasons do, and even so, it was still over too quickly. Peter wanted to hold onto it and her for longer. For, she was exquisite, but never so much so when she howled his name. 

He felt her insides flutter around his tongue and Peter grunted. 

Her orgasm was a thunder-clap. A monstrous storm in a sea of peace. It was the start and end of the age. And then, it was over. 

Her sweat-soaked body fell back on the furs in a melted puddle of earnest words. Between those words were the broken edges of his name. He picked up the shattered remains of her sanity and pressed them back to her with mindful kisses on her eyelids and cheeks. “Michelle,” he murmured. 

She was a causality of their wild youth. “Peter?” 

His face morphed into a blinding smile that outshone the dwindling firelight, “Hello.” 

Michelle gingerly reached for his cheeks and brushed a wild curl out of his eyes. He closed his eyes, moved by her touch. Against his brow, she whispered, “I love you, too.” 

The prince’s eyes snapped open. His breath quickened and he worried he would soon wake up from this perfect dream. For in this world she loved him, too. But wakefulness never came, which only meant that it was real. She was real. 

A tear escaped him. She kissed it away. 

They fell back together, then. No other words were needed. They learned what was left to learn of each other’s bodies as the firelight started to falter and dampen. And soon, all they had to illuminate their love making was the dim moonlight that stole through the window. 

The moonlight gave way to twilight. Twilight left for dawn. And their two dissonant bodies found harmony at last.


	16. a battle of wills

Michelle awoke midday nestled in the furs strewn in front of the smoky fireplace. Her husband’s heavy arm was tucked securely around her middle and his nose was pressed against the back of her neck, buried in her loose curls. The blanket that he had pulled down from the unused bed in the twilight was barely covering their naked bodies.

She snuggled back into his warmth and he pulled her firmly against his chest. “Mm,” he yawned, “Good morning wife.”

“Good morning, husband,” she replied, leaning her head over her shoulder to steal a kiss off of him. His mouth turned upward.

She loved the drafty four walls that comprised their hut. The little barrack was more welcoming and cozy than any bed chamber she had ever known. Michelle felt more at home on the Mountain, surrounded by warriors, than she had ever felt around the blood thirsty courtiers of her kingdom. It was not the mountain air that made the difference. It was the prince that kissed her bare shoulder and murmured, “We should start our day. You’ve kept us far too long.”

Michelle rolled around in his arms and kissed him squarely on the mouth, “I have?”

“Yes,” he teased her, “You have.” She luxuriated in another kiss from her husband. “In fact,” he smirked, rolling her body underneath his, “You’ve kept me quite well-occupied.”

Michelle cupped her husband’s shining face in her hands. It was utter ecstasy to have someone that was so devoted to her. She had never known love like the kind she shared with Peter. It had been easy to run from it—fear was an uncomplicated response to her Peter’s initial intensity—but eventually he had caught up with her. He could break her heart and when it healed she knew those fractured pieces would still beat for him.

He had her fully and completely. And he had the part that mattered most—not the princess but the woman underneath.

Peter nuzzled his nose into her open palm and Michelle bit back a foolish grin.

Her heart caught in her chest when Peter began to lean down for another kiss. It was an animated, impassioned kiss. It rumbled at the demons under her skin and awoke them to come out and play. She bit his welcoming mouth and he groaned frenzied.

Their feverish hands began to press and squeeze.

Then, the door blew down and everything stopped.

Michelle ducked her heated face against Peter’s bare chest. Without delay, Peter used his body to conceal his wife’s dignity and block her from the offending intruder. He shot his hand out and the wild red sparks of his magic came to life.

A bored, amused voice drawled, “As much as I enjoy your pasty bottom, your royal highness, please get off my sister.”

Michelle ducked her head under Peter’s arm and gaped at the mutilated figure in the doorway. She had one good arm and her face had more scars than skin. She was nearly unrecognizable. But her eyes retained the same steel Michelle had known all her life. “Nebula?”

Something flashed in those steely greens. “Hello, ‘Chelly.”

* * *

 

 “You dullard,” King Anthony yelled. “You have started a war I was hoping to avoid. The whole reason I married you to this girl was to keep the peace! But you stealing the Princess away from her castle without warning, without permission, is tantamount to kidnapping.”

“She is **my** wife!” Peter hollered back at his King and father. Michelle anxiously adjusted the dress she had thrown on hurriedly when Nebula had told them King Anthony had arrived for an audience. Peter had been a stormy, quiet figure as he dressed. His relationship with his father was anyhing but warm.

“And she is **their** princess! You have been married less than two days. The ink was barely dry on your marriage certificate before you stole their princess away on a dragon to fly to an enemy country! Use your head boy. Look at her!” Peter turned his gaze to Michelle and she desperately longed for the soft eyes that had met hers in the moonlight only hours ago. “What did you think Thanos would do? He has been trying to find any excuse to break our treaty since we beat him into submission last Spring. Your wife is a frail, helpless looking wisp of a girl. Her people will think you have taken her against her will.”

Anger flooded Michelle like a breaking dam. She was no damsel. Michelle moved to step toward King Anthony to defend her pride, but Nebula’s one hand snatched her wrist to keep her at bay. The princess bared her teeth at her sister, but Nebula was unmoved. She rolled her eyes and yanked Michelle away from the fight. It made the princess’ blood sing with boiling frustration.

“Do not speak of her in that manner. She is the only person in this room that cares for me,” Peter spat.

The King clicked his jaw, “What is that supposed to mean, Prince?”

“You never showed me an ounce of affection!” Peter howled. His anger came off of him in waves. Red sparks of magic danced through the hastily thrown together royal tent on the Mountain. Michelle flinched away from the violent display. Major surges of magic had been outlawed in her home country for so many years, an aggressive display was alarming.

Peter snarled.

King Anthony slowly stood from his chair and cast out his own magic, like a whip. It tightened around Peter’s wrist and the King forced his son to his knees. Peter attempted to fight back but the King yanked down the leash of magic and Peter collapsed to a kneel.

Michelle reached for her own concealed blade that Peter had gifted her that morning, but Nebula sent her a severe look that stilled her hand. This stand-off was decidedly not how she wanted the reunion between sisters to happen.

King Anthony made his way purposefully over to his crouching son. He did not release the magical hold he had on him. The King took his time looming over the prince in heavy silence before he whispered, “Is that what you think, boy? I never showed you an ounce of affection.”

Peter defiantly tipped his chin up in his father’s direction and ground out between clenched teeth, “Yes.”

The King leaned down so he was on the same level as his son. From this angle, Michelle thought they bore a striking resemblance to each other. “How disappointing.” The King stood at his full stature and labored back to the rickety wooden chair that was doubling for a throne.

Peter snarled and tried to wiggle himself free of the magical ropes that tied him down to the ground. Michelle watched them tighten. “Peter stop,” she warned her husband. “The more you move, the tighter they get.”

“I never showed you an ounce of affection?” King Anthony repeated his son’s claim as he sat back in his chair. He tapped an impatient foot on the ground, “You have some nerve, boy.”

“After mother died—“

“I gave you everything,” The King shouted, slamming his hand on the armrest of his chair. The entire tent, the whole of the Mountain fell silent to hear its King speak. “I kept you near me in the castle to grieve after her passing instead of shipping you off to the Mountain the moment you turned eleven. And when you had to be sent away, when my advisors pleaded with me to let you train, I let you go without the royal seal. Anonymous. So you could take a rider’s name and make a name for yourself without being known as Prince. I let you be your own man on this Mountain. Without the shackles of duty to weigh you down.” Michelle watched her husband’s face morph from unbridled fury to slow-creeping shame. Still, the King continued, “And when you were ready I let you lead my Goch Legions. Ahead of Gamora that had, by right, earned her position as the General of my Legions. Yet, I gave the rank to you. My son.” The King lowered his raging voice to the gentlest tone she had ever heard come from him, “My boy.”

Peter averted his eyes. Michelle was too encapsulated by the King’s speech to dare look away, even if it was the polite and honorable thing to do. This was not a epitaph for public consumption. This was a frank conversation between father and son.

King Anthony lessened the strain of his magic and Peter shuttered in relief. Then, the King asked, “So, tell me boy, do you truly think I never showed you affection?”

“Father-“ Peter tried to speak, rubbing at the fast forming bruise on his arm. When he attempted to stand, her husband staggered and Michelle shook Nebula off of her wrist and ran forward to catch him. He pressed all of his weight against her and she held him up without complaint. “Father, please, I—“

“You would like a father that kissed your brow as a child and never scolded you for your wrongdoings. Well, I am not your nursemaid, boy. Or your wife. It was my job to raise you to be a ruler. A strong ruler and a good man. Whether you loathed me or not was never my concern. My chief concern was that you were ready to take my throne one day and continue to keep our country prosperous and safe.”

His words settled in Michelle’s gut. All her life she had heard her father make grand speeches to their court about his own personal honor and glory. He had spewed lies about being God’s anointed King and how the country was blessed by his reign. She had been dismissed as nothing more than breeding stock and had never been truly considered a viable heir to the throne. She was a silly little girl with silly little gowns and a silly little brain.

Yet, in the tent stood a King that loved his people and his Kingdom and his son. He was hard but fair, for his county needed a sovereign that ruled them towards prosperity not toward glory. His unwavering spirit and tenacity would be King Anthony’s legacy.

And one day, when he was long dead and buried, she hoped their joined people remembered him.

“Your majesty,” Michelle found herself speaking completely out of turn. All in the room snapped their eyes to her in surprise. She did not silence herself or her thoughts. The girl that remained quietly polite in the corner of a crowded ballroom was long gone. “Your son is a good man.”

“Michelle, please,” Peter pleaded her to stop speaking.

She did not. She could not. “He is a smart man, and a brave man. But, most importantly, he is a kind man. I know, as well as you do, that he will make a just and fair king. And he loves you. I beg you to heal what is fractured between you or my father will use this weakness against you in the end.”

It was an inflammatory and inappropriate thing to say in a room full of advisors to the King. She had no rank in their government as of yet. Michelle was the new wife of their Crown Prince, but her coronation had yet to happen. She was not their princess. She was a foreign princess in a foreign land that deemed herself worthy to chastise a king.

The entire tent held their breath, Michelle most of all, until the King exhaled. And it felt as if the entire room had done so with him. He opened his arms and jerked his head toward Peter, “Come here, boy.”

Peter cautiously walked across the room to his father. The King folded his adult son into his arms and without hesitation Peter threw his arms around his father. They looked as if they did not have much practice exchanging affection. It was uncomfortable, but underneath the surface there was a real longing to connect. The King and his son had a lot of time to catch up on, but Michelle was hopeful they would begin to repair what was broken between them.

If war did not snuff them all out.

Nebula pocketed her one good hand and drawled, “I hate to break up the truly heartwarming exchange, but we have an army poised to attack us within the day. We need a plan.”

Quill who had been silently lurking at Gamora’s side during the audience with the King, bowed his head to his rulers and said with the most mischievous grin imaginable, “I think I have an idea.”


	17. god's anointed king

The following sunrise brought war. They were out of time.

As the leaders of both armies marched toward another in the middle of the battlefield, Michelle felt the grass crunch under her boots and the wind whip at her face. The elements were more pronounced as she walked toward uncertainty. Nature welcomed her to war.

Gamora tightened her hold on her sword and Michelle addressed her sister, curtly, “Don’t act rashly, _Saudara_.”

“I will have my vengeance, _adik_ ” Gamora said through gritted teeth. Michelle tore her eyes away from her father waiting for the peace terms in the middle of the field to attend to her sister. She looked as lost as she had been to Michelle for all of those years. Michelle had been a fool to think that she had been the only one that had lost something in the years since her sisters’ disappearance.

Gamora had lost her family, her country and she had come to the battlefield to reclaim it all.

Michelle scrutinized her father, now only feet away, and promised, “We take back our land together.”

“For Nebula,” Gamora whispered.

“For mother,” Michelle agreed.

“For every Thanosian,” Gamora solemnly swore.  

King Anthony lifted his hand and his trusted leaders—Peter, Quill, Gamora and Michelle—all shuttered to a stop.

Thanos had brought men of his own, as well. The swine Ebony Maw stood demurely with his arms crossed behind his back. The hallow of his cheeks looked more skeletal now than they had every day of Michelle’s childhood. Cull Obsidian, more muscle than man, hulked over Ebony Maw and stood as still as a dead. Beside him, stood Corvus Glaive who was always ready to show his allegiance to her father. He had been the dark figure from her childhood that forced her to lock her doors at night. He was shadow. He was terror.  And he was utterly devoted to the figure on his right, Proxima Midnight.

Ebony Maw mockingly bowed at Michelle and Gamora, “My royal princesses. How good of these foreign scoundrels to return you to us unspoiled.” Michelle willed the hair on her arms not to stand on edge. Ebony Maw lazily took in the sight of her husband and Quill and tutted primly, “Well, mostly.”

Peter stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his blade. Michelle’s arm shot out to stop him. “He is goading you,” Michelle hissed.

“Well,” Quill growled, “I’m not gonna say its not working.”

King Anthony spoke over the flutter of his army leadership, “King Thanos, you’ve invaded my country and broken the terms of our peace.”

Thanos extended his hand and Ebony Maw scrambled to fasten his king with his ghoulish gauntlet. It clicked into place with an unpleasant click. He raised his eyebrow patiently and it transformed his features grotesquely, “You stole my daughters, Anthony.”

“My son is married—”

“Not **only** the boy,” Thanos said sharply. “I mourned Gamora and Nebula. Our entire kingdom mourned those girls and you have been keeping them hostages for how many years?”

Gamora ripped her sword free from her scabre, “Hostages?” Michelle’s sister let loose a splintered laugh filled with all of the pieces of her broken childhood. “We were exiles. We ran away. We ran away from you! You’re a monster.”  

Thanos clicked his tongue in contempt, “I have done what I have had to do to make certain that the monarchy survives.”

“Maybe we don’t deserve to,” Michelle finally spoke with ice coursing through her veins. Her father had beaten her country and her people into the dust until all that was left of them was ashes. He had gone beyond the city walls and ravaged the countryside for resources and blood. Her father had murdered innocents because he relished war and destruction. His disjointed logic did not excuse his crimes. “You used our people like pawns. You stripped them of their dignity and their lives and called it mercy. You did it all under the guise of being God’s anointed King.”

“I am God’s anointed King!”

“Then,” Peter said brandishing his sword, “I shall kill God’s anointed King.”

Thanos’ lip curled upward, a nasty snarl of a smile, and Michelle shuttered. He had once been her father. She had memories of the man who stood on the battlefield with eyes like black pools of poison that extended to almost affection. Her father had never been a kind man, but he had been her father and there had been moments of genuine connection between them. Or so she would have thought, so she would have hoped. Every little girl liked to believe in her father.

Now, he was a haunting figure armed to the teeth with sharp weapons and cruel intentions. He was a villain to her people. He killed without regard for human life and coated his hands in the dead’s blood for ancient rituals.  

In her childhood, she had latched onto Thanos’ brief moments of fatherly affection. But now she knew that they were only shreds of whatever humanity he had retained after years of  brutality. His scraps of love were nothing compared to what she had in Peter. Yet, her heart still ached for another world, another time when her father might have actually loved her.  

She wondered if Gamora and Nebula wished it, too.

Her husband stood with steel-like resolve at her side prepared to lunge into battle and bring her father to well-earned justice. He would battle her father alone in her name and honor. The girl that had grown up behind castle walls and locked her door for fear of cruel men would have let him take the field in her name and slay her father as she stayed quietly behind solider lines.

The warrior Mary Jane could not. 

And so, she cast off the last of remnants of that princess and the warrior finally stepped into the light.

She drew forth her own saber and it glinted fiercely in the overbearing sunlight. Her husband did not question her and he did not stop her. Instead, Peter stood obediently at her side and asked, “Are you ready?”

Michelle lifted her chin and bore her father down with the weight of her gaze. If he was a storm, she was a hurricane. “Steady as you were, Mr. Parker.”

He grinned and shifted his feet wider for battle. Together, with the full strength of the Starklands army at their back, they faced Thanos.

Her father sneered, “You would fight me, daughter?”

“I believe,” King Anthony interjected, “that is what the sword is for, King Thanos.”  

Ebony Maw unfolded his hands from behind his back and offered Michelle a smile so sickly sweet it could have rotted her teeth. “Princess,” his holy lordship drawled from across the patch of grass they treated on before the battle. “I have made a bargain with your father. When the battle ends and your husband falls, I am to make you my wife.”

“Maw,” Peter barked at the mockery of a holy man, “perhaps instead, when this battle is over, I will bring her your head.”

“Enough,” Thanos boomed and the field fell silent. Every blade of grass stilled and the world ceased to make noise until Thanos spoke again, “I would not fight you, daughters. Lay down your swords. Or die.”

She tightened her grip around the handle. The girl Michelle had been was now ashes. All that was left of that prim, sheltered lady was her memories. Her husband had crashed himself into her life like canon-fire and burned down her world. From the blaze, she had arisen stronger and wiser and better. This Michelle would conquer a kingdom and bring peace to a world deserving of it. The old institutions would crumble and the guilty would fall on her blade in retribution. 

And when it was all over, when the sun set on a grateful world, she would sit beside her husband and rest. But not this day. No, this day she would fight for not only her freedom but the freedom of all those that did not have the power to speak for themselves. “I choose death,” she said flatly. 

Her father narrowed his eyes, “So be it.”


	18. brother and sister in arms

Peter treated back to the dragon riders waiting on the hilltop just above the battlefield with his wife at his heels. The pair of them were still reeling from the meeting with Thanos. The terms went about as well as he could have expected from a king and butcher like Thanos, but he had not anticipated the iron fury that swept through him when Maw made intentions toward his wife. He would make this war one battle long and when the white flag rose in surrender from their enemies Peter would separate the innocent soldiers from the wicked men that licked at Thanos’ boots and end Thanos’ reign of terror once and for all.  

His home had tried for peace. He had married a woman he did not know all to prevent a second wave of violence. It had failed.

Karin’s mighty head rested on the soft grass as Peter approached her. She lazily lifted her snout into his outstretched hand and he rubbed his hand soothingly along her scales. “Hey there, girl,” he whispered, “How about one more flight?” She blew hot air out of her nose in giddy agreement. War agreed with his goch like the wild beast she was underneath all of her well tamed scales.

Peter rested his forehead against the flat of her large head and took a sobering breath in. Dragon and rider.

Michelle tentatively stepped forward and his goch bore her hackles. Peter leveraged his body between his goch and his wife as a clear sign to his beast that she was to behave herself. Karin growled but acquiesced, falling back into the earth to cuddle with the warm grass a little longer.

The prince turned to his wife who looked as green as she was in battle. Peter took up her leather wrapped hands, the bindings of a dragon rider, and ducked to catch her eye, “Michelle?”

She clutched his lithe gloved hands, “Tell me it is going to be okay.”

He gingerly slid his one hand from her grasp to cup her cheek. She smiled wearily at him. “I won’t lie to you.” Her smile fell. He hurriedly tried to pick up the broken pieces of her radiant grin, “But this is not my first battle. And Karin will keep me safe.”

Michelle’s frown deepened and it made his next words nearly impossible to voice. He did not want to betray her spirit, but when she had stood mere feet from her father, Peter had seen the way that Thanos’ small troupe looked at their princess. If she stepped on the battlefield, they would take her dead or alive. She would not be allowed to return to the Starklands with him. And that was a loss he was not willing to endure. “But Em, I need you to stay behind the lines where you’ll be safe.”

“Peter—” her jaw clicked, “—this is my war. Mine.” There was barely concealed betrayal swirling behind her eyes and Peter forced himself not to look away.

When he had woken that morning, wrapped around her for perhaps the last time, he had promised himself he would let her fight. He had helped her dress for battle and lifted her on his goch’s back to the battlefield. But now, faced with the haunting prospect of a world without her, Peter learned he was not strong at all. He was terribly weak. And she was his Achilles’ heel. “And all of us will fight it for you,” he tried to explain.

She blinked furiously at him as if she could not reconcile his betrayal and her own disbelief. “You would have me send men to die in my honor?”

“I would not ask these soldiers to do would I would not. And I would gladly lay down my life so you could be free.”

She snarled at him, and for a moment he saw a glimpse of a dragon unfurling her deadly wings to attack, “This is not freedom. Just a different cage.”

“Michelle—”

“Go, prince,” she dismissed him. “The battle drums have begun to sound.” Peter turned to look over the edge of the cliff and she was right. The men on the drums began to pound out an even, dour rhythm that rebelled against the uneven pattern of his own heartbeat. He did not want these to be the last words between them. He longed for the ease and comfort of two moons ago when she had come to him in his wooden barrack and, together, they glided through stardust.

His wife unkindly shoved his helmet into his chest and the leathers he wore to protect himself from the whipping winds when he flew his goch did little to protect the ferocity of her push. “Michelle, please,” he clutched to his helmet.

But she was already walking from the edge of the cliff, working her way through legions of gochs toward the safety of the backlines. His squire Ned took her under his arm and nodded severely at Peter as if to say he would keep her safe. He wanted to follow her and throw himself at her feet to beg for forgiveness, but the increasing intensity of the war drums echoed in his ears.

Quill tentatively approached his prince, “Peter?”

He tore his eyes away from his wife’s retreating back and slammed his helmet on his head. His eyes closed for an unsettling moment. He sent a silent prayer to his gods—the sky and his wife—and climbed onto Karin’s back. “Saddle up, Quill.”

His devoted friend said, “But Peter—”

“Saddle up, all of you!” Peter shouted with deafening finality. Karin threw her head back and roared to the sky. All of the dragons on the edge joined her and all of Peter’s misgivings and worry were drowned out by the howling of an army of gochs. And one by one all of the dragonriders buckled themselves down to their own beasts until they were a ready and mighty force awaiting the command of their prince.

Gamora found Peter’s eyes over the head of her own goch, Godslayer. The metal looking beast clicked his tongue as his mistress scratched behind one of his scales. Her piercing eyes reminded him of her sister’s own eyes and Peter took to the sky, flying just above the head of his entire legion.

“Hold your ground. Steady, riders. Steady.” The gochs all bellowed. And the riders joined them as the wild wind overtook his legion and war conquered their frenzied blood. “Today,” he shouted, his heart steadying to the pounding of the war drums, “We fight to end this war. We fight for every man, woman and child in the Thanosian territories that live in fear. We fight for every enemy soldier that would rather be home with their families, but were drafted into an unjust war. We fight for our own families, our country, and our king.” Gamora’s eyes flashed. Peter shouted louder, “And we fight for Nebula! We fight for Michelle! We fight for Gamora!”

The riders all drew their swords and slammed the hilts against their shields, a rusty applause for soon-to-be-bloodied warriors. They protected their own. And Gamora had been their own for more sunsets than Peter could count. “And if we die,” Peter continued, his voice as gusty and the wind that swept through him with each flap of Karin’s wings. “We die. But first, we fly!”

The prince did not look back to where he imagined his wife was safely positioned. If he did, he feared he would never find the strength to leave her behind. He wanted her at his side in life and in battle. But war was about making sacrifices and he would sacrifice a great deal to keep Michelle safe. Even if she loathed him for it.

Karin gurgled to gain her rider’s attention and Peter scratched her scales placatingly. On the wings of his goch, he could see the war that was beginning below. The first line of men were engaging and soldiers were struggling, fighting…dying. Side-by-side. Brothers-and-sisters-in-arms.

Peter suddenly remembered something Gamora had told him when he was first learning to fly. He had been viciously thrown off the backs of what felt like hundreds of dragons and he had been ready to give up. He had reasoned that not all Starkland kings had to be dragonriders. Gamora had found him pouting outside of his shared hut with the other young riders. She had sat beside the fourteen year old prince and wrapped a heavy arm around him. He had sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand messily.

The Thanosian princess had hands that were all-callused and hard from training. Peter’s were still soft and unpracticed from years of strictly magic study. “I’ll never fly a dragon,” he had lamented.

Gamora had squeezed him close. He had never had an older sibling, but he had imagined, then, that her embrace was what having an older sister might have felt like. “You will. And in every battle, I will fly at your side. Until the end.”

A true brother-and-sister-in-arms.

This war with her father felt like the end. Peter tried to stifle the sense that this would be his last ride with all of his riders. But it was an oppressive intuition.  

The prince yanked on Karin’s reigns and the goch dipped down into the fray of the massacre. He soared above the enemy line with his sword and magic working in tandem to knock down dozens of soldiers.

The war began to bleed into limitless time. He was only aware of the swing of his sword arm and the magic that lashed out of him like a relentless whip. All else melted away behind the curtain of the thrum of war.

Until he spotted Thanos.

His wife’s father stood apart from his men behind the safety of his most trusted legion of monster men. The men that stood in front of Thanos were not the poor faceless soldiers that fought and died for a king that ripped them from their homes and farms. No, the men that protected Thanos were party to his atrocities. They were Thanos’ trusted guard. They were Maw’s men. And Peter fly right toward them as his vision focused on only Thanos.

He had never wanted a war; in fact, the prince had done all he could to prevent it, but war had come and blood was its currency. It spent all over the battlefield.

The roar of gochs did their part to drown out the screams of the suffering. But only barely.  

Peter leaned into Karin so they could fly faster, attack quicker. Peter’s blood simmered. Only cowards did not fight. Only cowards let innocent men die on their swords. 

Peter was going to ground Thanos into the dust. 

In this haze of concentration, he missed the crank of the great catapult. He missed the tell-tale click of the war machine snapping into place. He missed it all until it was too late.

The large rock had been let loose and it was hurtling in the direction of him and his goch. Peter had only moments before it hit him and Karin.

And in those brief, final quiet moments Peter unlatched himself from his dragon. And let his body go limp so he could easily drop off of her back so she could be free to fly away from the catapult. To find safety. To live.

_The prince fell from the sky._

The winds whipped as he dropped and it cruelly ripped his helmet off of his face.

Karin cried out for her master. It was a powerful, aching roar. 

And then, his body disappeared from sight into the crowd of fighting soldiers and their dead comrades.


	19. and yet, she survived

When she was a girl, Michelle had a secret hiding spot in her father’s castle. It was a forgotten passage off of the servants’ quarters and when she needed respite from the seemingly endless string of etiquette lessons and princess duties, she would hide away in her little spot. It was smaller than a closet, but for a child it was a palace. One afternoon Michelle had tucked her favorite cloth doll there when her nursemaid told her she had outgrown such childish flight’s of fancy and, another day, she fashioned a sword out of twigs she found on the castle grounds. In that room, she had no limitations. She was free. The princess could imagine herself a great knight or dragon rider that took on the evils on the world in battle and no one would snivel their unpretty noses and chastise her for dreaming.

In that room, she was a heroine. In the damp, forgotten corner of her father’s great house, she imagined armies collapsed under her might of her mighty, wooden weapon.

As she grew, she abandoned the little crawl space. She outgrew the low walls and her whimsical childhood to bend to her duties as a princess. Large acts of rebellion like fashioning a sword turned into smaller acts of defiance like forgoing her corset on a hot June day. Children cease to dream and imagine when the grow out of their fantasies.

Yet, meeting Prince Peter had awoken that little spark of rebellion. It caught fire in her and licked at the marrow of her bones as if to say— _awake, wild child, and run_. And so she ran with him. She climbed on the back of his great dragon and together they forsook the world as it had been in the hopes for a better tomorrow. They made promises to one another as they tipped headfirst into love. She had trusted him because she had loved him.

It was hard to feel that love now, as she watched the battle rage on below the cliffs where she was safely stationed. He had abandoned her when the war drums called. He had climbed on the back of his ferocious beast and told her to stay behind, as if the war was not hers to fight as well. It had caused a schism between them so deep that she almost expected the earth to split open and yank them apart.

She hated him. She hated that he had given her wings to fly and clipped them cruelly when she was most eager to take to the skies.

As the sun set on the battlefield, the orange hues of the light turned the battlefield cruelly red. It bounced off of the bloody piles of dead men and those that lay in waste screaming for their Gods. It was as if the sun wanted to hide from the violence. Only the moon had the stomach for such bloodshed.

There was a mighty roar and Michelle looked beyond the cliff where a goch was quickly approaching. The squire Ned pulled Michelle backward, away from the offending animal, and when it landed the blue and red goch snarled.

It was Karin. And she was missing her rider.

Michelle’s heart stopped. Her eyes searched for her husband’s body, perhaps strewn over the back of his great beast. She prayed that he was injured and Karin had brought him back for aid. The beast’s great eyes, fierce and unwelcome as they always were to Michelle, held something desperate under the surface. She opened her great jaw and Ned shouted, “Stand back, your Grace.”

“No,” Michelle raised her hand and took a tentative step toward Karin who yipped unhappily. The goch did not remove her eyes from Michelle. They stayed locked on her master’s wife. There was neither trust nor warmth between the two of them. But in all they did not share, they had one important thing in common. “Peter,” Michelle whispered. “Where is Peter?”

Karin dropped the heavy helmet from her jaw and the familiar armor lay abandoned on the grass. Michelle fell to her knees and picked up her husband’s helmet. Her first and most terrible thought was that he was dead, but she clamped down her worries with only the steel women could carry. She had not given her husband permission to die. And so, he would not.  

Michelle let out a desperate, haunting sound that was reminiscent of a sob. Ned crowded her space and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, “My lady—”

She shook her head, “No.” With more gusto, she repeated, “No. Not this day.” Karin roared in agreement. Michelle turned her head to the beast and there was not forgiveness nor companionship in the animal’s eyes, but there was understanding. _Together_. They would save him together.

The princess turned to her husband’s squire and shoved the discarded helmet into his fists. She adopted the voice of a woman that would lead nations, a Queen, “You will hold the line. You will keep these men and women safe. This battle is not lost. And neither is he.”

She yanked the sword she barely knew how to use from her scaber and tested the weight of it in her grip. It would have to do. The princess did not have time to think, only to act. Satisfied, she slammed the sword back into its sheath and crossed to Karin. The great beast flared her nostrils in contempt at Michelle but she did not bare her teeth or snap unkindly. She extended her wing so Michelle could climb on her back and made a noise that seemed to suggest— _well, if you must_.

Michelle brushed her hands along Karin’s scales and they breathed together.

Then, she mounted the dragon and swept her hands up in the flimsy reins Peter had fashioned for himself. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him on the goch with her, the hard planes of his back resting against her chest to keep her safe and sound. She ached for him now and the hate that she had let burrow into her skin ebbed away like a song.  She clutched reins, locked her feet in the stirrups and whispered to Karin, “Find him.”

* * *

Watching the battle on the back of a dragon was disorienting. Her eyes could not focus on the movement below. She was not out of practice at the skill, she had never learned it. There were other dragon riders around her that weaved and dodged and swept in the fray on the back of their beasts. Michelle did not have such skills, but Karin guided her without much prompting. She was singularly focused on her task to find her master.

In the whipping of the winds, Michelle heard a familiar shout, “What are you doing here?”

She turned her head and squinted to make out the fuzzy form of Quill, “Finding my husband!”

There was an uneasy beat of horror from Quill before he yelled to the battalion of riders, “FIND THE PRINCE!”

“NO!” Michelle howled, “HOLD THE LINES! LEAVE PETER TO ME!”

“Michelle—” Quill tried.

“That is an order,” she growled. Karin roared.

She could not see details of Quill’s face but she imagined him chomping on his jaw before he reluctantly gave orders to continue the fight. Her husband was her responsibility. He had saved her from her father’s house and she would save him from Thanos now.

* * *

As time moved from minutes to moonlight, Michelle tried to dampen the dread that was building beneath her armored chest. She could feel the uneven rhythm of the goch’s breathing beneath her. They carried their worries together as they swooped through the sky. They were finding nothing. He was lost to them. Michelle tried not to imagine her husband’s body crushed beneath the piles of dead bodies scattered on the field below. She tried not to see his eyes open and expressionless with the last fight of his life etched on his face. She hoped her fears were unfounded, but as time stretched on she began to doubt.

Fear gripped her and desperation paid her an unwelcome visit. “You have to let me down,” she whispered suddenly.” Karin yelped in confusion, so Michelle repeated more firmly. “You have to let me down. I won’t find him from the sky. I don’t know it as well as he did.” Her eyes prickled traitorously. “Does. You have to let me down. Into the fight.” Karin whinnied, making her caution known, but Michelle could not be persuaded. If there was any chance her husband was alive, she had to go to him. “Please,” Michelle croaked.

Karin flapped her wings indecisively and then swooped toward the earth. If it had been another time, another day, Michelle would have carelessly thrown her arms in the air and relished the drop. Instead, she clung to the reins and pressed her body as close the Karin’s scales as possible, leaning toward the earth as if it would get her there faster. The dragon touched down and burned a ring of fire around the perimeter of her landing. All of the soldiers nearby leapt back as Michelle dismounted.

She walked around the head of the beast and rested her forehead against her snout like she had seen Peter do a number of times. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Karin huffed out of her snout and it blew warm air against Michelle’s cheeks. She took it to mean _be careful_ and she promised touched Karin’s scales to reassure her she would bring their boy home. Michelle was not sure if Karin understood, but she roared once more and pushed off the ground to take to the skies once more.

Michelle was alone. The ring of fire separated her from the soldiers that stood hungrily outside the perimeter, teeth gnashing for a fight. The princess reached for the hilt of her sword and paused. The steel was not the wooden weapon she had fashioned in her childhood. She was gravely aware that she did not know how to use this weapon.

The princess withdrew her hand from her sword and closed her eyes, taking in a deep, settling breath. She would fight with the weapons that she had, sword be damned.

She extended her hand and little sparks of blue magic tickled her fingertips. The men beyond the ring stared in awe. The Thanosian people did not practice magic. It was seen as an evil skill that was base and uncivil. It was something that the wicked and uncivilized Starklands soldiers used as a nasty trick.

With her hair tied up in braids and her body in reinforced dragonrider leather, she supposed she looked more like a dragonrider than their princess. Her lip turned upward in a smirk.

Michelle did not have control over her magic like the people of the Starklands or like her father, but she knew how to wield it better than these men. She lashed out her hand and the blue sparks flickered out across the field, taking down all those that stood in her path.

* * *

As she forced her way through all the men that dared stand in the way of her pursuit, Michelle called out for her husband. Men cried out in agony in the heat of war, but none of those cries belonged to her prince. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat that told her to abandon all hope. As long as there was breath in her, she would hope for him.

She pushed through the warring crowds. Every Starkland soldier that saw her fighting, crowed in delight. They banged their swords against their shields and shouted her name like a battle cry. She brandished her magic ferociously and without apprehension.

The night began in earnest and the moonlight was the only light in the darkness beyond the occasional whips of her magic, like lightening in the black. The battle raged on.

But the darkness was not all a cloak. It made magic users easier to spot. And she followed the streaks of purple that lashed out into the sky. _Thanos_.

It occurred to her that if Peter was not lost on the field, he was in her father’s clutches. Or she hoped.

She cut down what felt like leagues of men as she moved toward her father, to end what he had started, what he had destroyed.

When Peter had shouted to his riders that afternoon he had conjured the names of those worth fighting for. He had spoken of the men and the women and the children of his kingdom. He had spoken of those enslaved by Thanos’ cruelty. He had spoken of his father and her and Nebula and Gamora. But he had not mentioned himself.  He had been an afterthought, as if no one would bother to raise arms for their prince.

She would. She would fight for him with every ounce of energy in her lithe body. She would joust and scrap and war for his smile. Because to have a love worth having was to have a love worth fighting for.

Michelle broke through the last row of men that separated her from her father and his insidious group of grovelers. Cull Obsidian hacked a man apart for the sport of it. Corvus Glaive and Proxima Midnight flanked her father like two imposing guards. And Maw practically salivated at the sight of her. She reckoned she must have looked wild and savage to the group staring at her with barely contained amusement. It was an unwelcome sight to most, but Maw looked like he could devour her whole.

She did not have eyes for any of them. She was singularly focused on the bloodied man wheezing under her father’s boorish golden boot.

“Peter,” she choked. He was alive.

“Michelle,” he flinched, as her father applied pressure to his chest. “Michelle, run,” he tried to say, but Thanos was suffocating him.

Thanos simpered and she lit her hands up in blue sparks. “Hello daughter,” he cooed leisurely. “I confess, I am surprised to see you. I had thought it would have been the king. Or Gamora. Nebula, even,” he added. “But you,” he pressed deeper against Peter’s chest and her husband shouted in pain, “You are a surprise.”

“I’ll kill you,” she snapped, leashing in her most basic urges to send magic out to slice at her father’s smug face.

His smile fell, wounded. “You would kill me, child?”

She repressed the few happy memories of her childhood that dared make an appearance on the battlefield. “Stop it,” she ground out. “Get out of my head.” Her father had dark magic, evil magic and she could feel him invading her mind now. “None of these moments forgive you your sins.”

Thanos ground his boot into Peter’s chest and her heart lurched when her husband struggled and gasped. His hands were weak and bruised yet he held onto Thanos’ ankle as if he could force it away. He stayed firmly pinned into the ground. “I disagree.”

“Please,” Michelle grieved. “Stop. You’re hurting him.” She sobbed, “Your battle is with me.”

“You?” Thanos wondered and lifted his heavy foot from her husband’s chest. Peter gasped for air, but he remained a broken puppet on the ground. They had ground him into the earth and beat him beyond exhaustion. He looked like he was barely holding onto what little life was still beating in him. Thanos stepped over her husband’s body and Proxima Midnight yanked Peter on his woozy feet. She drew a sharp blade and held it against her husband’s long throat. She had kissed lazily kisses down the length of that throat that morning. It felt like another life.

Her father kept a healthy distance between them, but his presence was so imposing she felt as if he was breathing down her back. She was a scolded child, again. She did not have a special crawl space to hide away in. She was forced to meet his eye. “Daughter, our fight is with them. These foreign invaders that forced you into a marriage you did not want. That burned our countryside with dragon fire. That proclaimed to tell me, God’s anointed King, that my rule was unholy. These men are our enemies.”

She felt his magic massaging her mind, making her see his reason. She fought against him, but it was hard to stand up to a man that had bullied her free will into the dirt her whole life. She was afraid of Thanos not because he was an evil King and a unholy man, but because he was her father.

“Don’t,” Peter gagged on his own blood, “Don’t listen to him, Em.”

She shook her head, trying to free her thoughts of the cluttered cobwebs that he spun to fuzzy her conscience and reason. It was hard. And she was so tired. Perhaps it would be easier to lay down and submit to her father and King’s will. _Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps_.  

Peter did not relent, “Michelle, look at me.” Her eyes flittered to her husband. He was broken and open and honest, “ _I love you_.” It rattled her spirit. It dipped her in starlight. She breathed.

Proxima Midnight slammed the blunt edge of the hilt of her knife into his temple. He collapsed, woozy.

Michelle turned her gaze on her father and her hands began to shake. The magic was building in her, it was a dangerous thing. She was a threatening, unstable vehicle for a power she did not understand. The blue sparks crackled and Thanos drew forth his own magic. But it was too late.

She had been repressed, beaten down, made to feel less than her entire life. She had been a pawn. She had been sold off like a prized breeding mare. She had been locked away and manipulated by fear. She had lost her sisters and watched her mother suffer under her father’s cruel hands. She had known only misery and terror.

And yet, she had survived. She had survived for this moment. She had survived to save them all. But she had survived, most of all, to save herself.

The blue magic that bubbled under her skin, that had been locked away for years and years, finally lashed out in an explosive, rippling circle. It rocked out of her and engulfed Ebony Maw that burned up in the blue, unforgiving flames, his mouth open in an unsounded scream. It charged through Proxima Midnight and Corvus Glaive and tore them to ribbons. It shot through Cull Obsidian and cut clean through his head.

But it was her father that she watched through the destruction of her small outburst of unbridled magic. He raised his fist, as if to snap his fingers and use his own magic to stop her, but it stalled. He was frozen and his eyes, for the first time in her life, showed a burst of fear.

And then, he began to disintegrate. He decayed and sunk into the dirt as he body became ash. His hand fell away, his body crumbled and he rotted from the inside out.

The last part of her father to collapse into nothing was his face and he whispered into the night air one word—“Gamora.”

When it was over, the surge of energy that swelled petered out. Her knees sagged. She felt like a well of energy that had been drunk dry. 

She spotted her husband’s broken body in the dirt where he had been dropped by Proxima Midnight. His face was slackened in pain.

Michelle tried to crawl to him, but she was too weak. Her hand extended toward his and the last thing she felt before she succumbed to the darkness was the pad of his hand grazing her own.


	20. calm voices soothe the air

In the twelve days that his wife had single-handedly defeated her father and won the war, Michelle had not woken. Her coma hung like a velvet curtain of walking death and, so, in winning the war, the prince seemingly lost everything. Peter did not dare leave her bedside for fear that if he did, if he abandoned his vigil for even a moment, she might slip effortlessly into the night and never return. The vigil was harder work than he could have imagined as he was not fit to attend to her. He had sustained his own injuries that his sister-in-law, Nebula, had plainly called irreversible. The jagged scar that licked from his collarbone to his navel was a grim reminder of Thanos’ impossibly heavy boot from the battlefield. Yet, the pain he had endured in battle was nothing compared to torture of his watch.

When he limped into the medical bay the morning after the war under the support of Quill’s shoulder, the healers had fussed over their prince. They had flurried over to him and tried to stabilize his own wounds. He had swatted them away with an impatient hand and dropped to his knees at Michelle’s side. The prince had taken up her hand and pressed kisses against each knuckle as a soft offering of what he had been unable to give her on the battlefield when their fingers had almost touched.

The following twelve days were purgatory. There was no solace or grief. The prince was resigned to the in-between, to the waiting, and it was maddening.

“Peter,” Gamora whispered at dusk on the twelfth day, “your people need to see their prince.” He shook his head. She sighed, “Karin needs to be flown. You have duties to attend to. Michelle would—”

“Don’t,” he cracked on his command, “Don’t tell me what she would want.”

Gamora sat beside her brother-in-law and tucked a gentle arm around him. Peter’s shoulders immediately fell. He was Atlas, holding the world on his narrow shoulders, and Gamora made the weight impossibly heavy. She made him pause and consider the hopelessness of his task. He was waiting for a miracle that might never happen. After all of their suffering, after all of their fighting, he might lose his wife.

Peter choked out a rough sob. Gamora pulled him closer into her arms.

When the crying began, it was impossible to stop. The dam that had been keeping his emotions behind an iron door melted away and the feelings rushed out of him like wildfire. It burned up everything in him that was hopeful and patient. “I can’t lose her,” he fought for breath. “Oh god, what will I do if I lose her?”

Gamora rocked the prince back and forth in her arms and Peter felt like a little boy again. He remembered Ben Parker, the tutor that had shown him more fatherly affection than King Anthony had ever been able to muster, and he mourned all at once for many things. He mourned for his childhood, his innocence, his kingdom and he mourned for Michelle. All that she was and would ever be to him if he lost her now.

“Keep faith she will wake,” Gamora hushed him. It did little to calm his raging spirit, but her soft tones did soothe his sobbing. “But,” she treaded cautiously, “you cannot stand watch forever, my Prince. You must rule. You must fly. You must show strength for your people.”

“I don’t know how,” he admitted with a voice as breakable as porcelain.

Gamora faithfully kissed his brow, “You will learn to bare it. As we all must.”

It took three more days, but on the fifteenth day of his watch, Peter kissed his wife and returned to the world without her. For their kingdom. For their people. And for his wife, for Michelle.

* * *

As days turned to months and months turned into years, Princess Michelle became more legend than girl. The village children of the Starklands whispered about the sleeping beauty in the Prince’s tower. It was rumored that she was beautiful and that she donned a peculiar black veil. Some of the children even whispered that she was once the daughter of the evil King Thanos that drank the blood of his people.

These were the romantic stories that peasants spun around their firepits late at night.

The prince never spoke of his wife. Those that had known of the short marriage of their Crown Prince Peter to a Thanosian Princess only knew that she had flown into battle and never returned. And when the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Two Kingdoms came around, Michelle was more a half-forgotten memory to the people of the Starklands than a real, breathing girl.

But Peter never forgot. Every night he trudged the long steps up the tower to watch over his wife’s strange sleeping state. She did not move or twitch or open her eyes. Yet, she breathed and, for that reason, as the years grew long, he hoped. And with that hope he sat obediently by her beside and spun a picture of the life she was missing. He spoke to her about his day and regaled her with stories about Karin and the riders. He told her about Gamora and Quill. And when Gamora gave birth to her son, he described the baby in perfect detail.

It was half a life, but the Prince was dedicated to the woman that had stolen his heart with one half-smile on the tourney grounds the first morning they met. There would be no moving forward for him. Not until she woke.

* * *

On his twenty-fourth birthday—five years, six months, and eleven days after the Battle of the Two Kingdoms—Peter climbed his usual path up the steps to his wife’s monument. The walk was long, but it always gave him time to prepare his heart to see her sleeping. The shock never abated. Seeing her immobile in her bed was always like the first time, the raw pain of the sight radiated bone deep. The walk allowed him the time to smother out his overeager heart’s dream to see her awake, to see her smile.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose before he reached for the knob on the door. Birthdays and holidays were always the worst days to see her slumber. There was so much she was missing and it was a knife to his heart that he was the one that had to endure life without her. In the secret recesses on his heart, he often wished that he was bound to the magical voodoo of an eternal sleep and that his wife was free to live and laugh and lead. She was made for royalty. He had always been an imperfect ruler, a scrappy prince with less sense than a hotblooded dragon. Whereas she was a goddess. A deity. A ruler for the ages.

The prince was just a boy that was inexplicably lucky to have had her love for the few days she granted it to him. He selfishly had hoped for more. 

The door swung open and Peter’s entire life crashed around him.

_She was gone. His wife was stolen._

Peter rushed to the bed and ran his palms against the linens. They were still warm. She was freshly gone. His face fell to the tempting storm of savagery. Someone or something had taken his wife. He turned on his heel and clomped down the steps shouting for help, for aid, for his men to ready themselves.

“The princess! Someone has taken the princess,” he shouted with barely leashed ferocity. He was less man than beast. More violence than virtue. “HAS NO ONE HEARD ME! SOMEONE STOLE THE PRINCESS—”

“Mr. Parker,” said a twinkling and starkly unused voice. It was the voice that broke through his rage. “Would you stop shouting?”

His body stopped and his mind ceased to run. Every muscle in his body froze. And then, thawed like a wintery lake on the first day of Spring. The voice gave life like Spring. It made the harshness of Winter feel so, so very far away. He closed his eyes and a pesky tear fell down his face. Strangely, he could not recall the last time he had cried. Yet still, he was too afraid to turn around, to face the voice. It had been so long. He had forgotten what her voice had really sounded like. How could he have forgotten?

“Em,” he heaved.

The confusion in her voice was evident, “Why am I getting your back? And not your face, Prince?”

He relished in the timbre of her voice. The sound alleviated more burden than he had even realized he was holding. He had truly been Atlas all these years. Her stillness had quieted him, too.

“I’m afraid to turn around,” he breathed.

Her heard her laughter and he wanted to crush it to his chest for safe keeping. “Why?” she mused.

“Because if I turn around and you’re not really here, I don’t know what I’ll do.” He got down to the heart of the matter, “Five years is a long time to hope, Em.”

He heard the clack of her heels against the tiled floor and Peter tensed. Time was his mistress. It had been so for so long. So long. If this was a dream, he was content to live in it forever. He wanted to be where his wife dwelled.

And then, the comforting hand of his long-lost wife pressed against his back. Her warmth was a balm to the shattered fragments of his broken heart. It quieted the sorrow of his spirit. “Michelle,” he shivered.

She pressed her full lips between his two shoulder blades and smiled, “Five years is a long time. So, why are you so insistent on making the wait longer?”

“If I turn around and you aren’t there—”

“I’m here,” she assured him, running her hands up and down his arms. It was electric like the blue sparks of magic she had carelessly tossed out to end a war. In his mind’s eye, he can almost see her fall, again. _Oh no_ , he could not bare that pain. To look was to know. And to know would only bring unspeakable happiness or unfathomable pain. Either way, he could never go back. 

He screwed his eyes shut, committing himself to the unknown. But his other senses did not become muted. “Michelle,” he whispered helplessly, “Don’t.” Five years did not change her nature. She did not head his warning. He would not love her as desperately as he did if she were the kind of woman that did. Still, the clacking of her feet as she rounded his helpless form standing in the empty corridor made his pulse race. There were no witnesses to their reunion. His pride was glad of it. He would not be able to face his men if, when he opened his eyes, his wife was only a ghost. A lifeless phantom sent to haunt him.

His eyes fluttered open and the dusty feel of his eyelashes tickled his cheeks. His vision pieced together slowly in hues of pink and purple, then deep greens and blues.

Until finally, all that was left, was her.

Standing in front of him with the same determined glint to her eye that he had burned into his memory. Into his dreams.

He was born afresh. Alive again from the very sight of her. He audibly sobbed. Peter folded his wife into his weary arms. And, _oh_ , she did not resist his handling and for that he was grateful. “Michelle,” he thrummed. “Em, you’re really here.”

She buried her nose in his shoulder and nodded, “I told you that I was…”

“You’re here,” he repeated with more relief.

“I heard you,” she whispered. “Every day. When you spoke to me, I heard you. And I wanted to talk back, but I couldn’t.” He felt the wetness of her own tears seep through his tunic, “You have to know I tried to get back to you.”

He nodded helplessly into the thick of her curls.

“And,” she continued with a teasing glint to her voice, “I noticed, husband, you put me in that silly black veil.”

“It amused me,” he quipped and clung to her more tightly.

Michelle laughed, again, but it was less carefree and more weighted than her last few laughs. It was as if the world was finally catching up with her. As if time was finally settling in. Or, more aptly, the time she had lost. “I suppose I should be grateful you did not recreate all of our first meeting.”

Peter clutched her arms, then her face, then her hands. He did not know what part of her he wanted to touch and explore more. It had been so long, nearly six years, since he had moments like these. He would never take them for granted, again. Life was a precious thing. Yet, life was infinitely more precious when he had someone to share it with—when he had Michelle.  

“Technically,” he corrected her, smoothing kisses against her brow and jaw and eyes, “It was our second meeting.”

“Too true, Mr. Parker,” she agreed.

Finally, vulnerably, defenselessly, he slanted his eager mouth over his wife’s lips. She gasped into the attention and her shaky hands fisted in the collar of his tunic. “Too long,” he muttered, bitten by her ardor. “Never leave me again,” he demanded.

“Never,” she keened. “Never ever.”

There was no bed, no prison of sheets that had possessed his wife for five years, when Peter caged her against the stone archway. There was only the curve of their two bodies that sounded like the desperate longing of five wasted years as they kissed. Their passion was a sad symphony that built and built until they carved out joy from all of the misery that the years had thrust on them. Royalty. Thanos. Their separation. It was all immaterial.

The music that looped in and out of impatient hands was transformative. They remembered what love felt like. What love tasted like. What _life_ felt like with love they could touch, taste and feel.

“When you were gone, it was like the world had no light,” Peter moaned against her jaw.

Michelle tipped her head back, her curls spilled over her shoulder, “You brought me back. Little by little. Day by day. I followed your voice back to the light.” 

* * *

When she woke, the Sleeping Princess in the Tower became the Dragon Queen. As years passed, it was said that she rose her seven children on dragon-back and that her husband, known only as the Benevolent King, ruled at her side for fifty years.

After they died, their reign was immortalized with a strip of worn blue ribbon woven throughout the family crest above a set of golden thrones. 

And when their children died— and their children’s children, and their children’s children’s children— The Dragon Queen and the Benevolent King morphed from history to myth. Minstrels sang their story in Great Halls and dirty taverns and around crackling firepits. 

And late at night, when these calm voices soothed the air, it was as if the whole world could hear their song.


End file.
